I'll Always Be With You
by Antigone
Summary: Two months after Frank's murder, Joe's guilt and grief catch up. Only a mysterious visitor can save him. Or has Joe really lost his mind? COMPLETE
1. Author's Note

A/N: This is not a mystery story. It's one of recovery. Frank and Joe may be out of character; I merely placed their characters in this situation and tried to anticipate their reaction. I hope I've done it some slight amount of justice. There are some mature themes of suicide and such involved, so if you don't like angst, don't read, or read and flame, it doesn't matter. The characters are not mine. Hope you enjoy, or at least don't regret having looked at it. Thanks! 


	2. Prologue

"I hate cases like this," the doctor sighed, stitching up the still teenager's arms. "These teen suicides. You just can't get used to them."  
  
The nurse nodded and scanned the ticking tape on the heart monitor. "He's stable now, isn't he?"  
  
"Barely. But still, there's all the emotional and psychological impacts." He sighed and tied off the final set of stitches. Almost three hundred. The cuts weren't straight. "I see more and more of these kids who can't care about anything but themselves because they're so trapped in their own pain."  
  
The nurse surveyed and boy's left arm as she began to wrap it with gauze. The stitches showed with horrific dark violence the exact shape of the cuts. "What's this? A name?"  
  
The doctor nodded. "His father told me his brother was stabbed to death two months ago. He was with him when it happened."  
  
The nurse suddenly felt nauseous, which she rarely did. "He.carved his brother's name in his arm?"  
  
The doctor just nodded and wrapped the small, straight cut on the boy's right wrist. "Finish up here. I'll go let the family know he's all right." He stole a final glance at the teen's still, young face and sighed. He never could understand despair.  
  
He washed his hands outside the E.R., threw out his gloves and the bloodied smock, slid into his whit coat and stepped into the waiting room.  
  
"Mr. and Mrs. Hardy?"  
  
The two approached him, their eyes red, their walk slow, the pain of one child gone and the other trying to follow had taken its toll; they moved as one person, floating and almost lethargic, weak from grief.  
  
Suicide takes everyone down with it. A never-ending vortex black hole of agony, pain so deep it sucks the soul away from the sufferer and pulls the hearts of those who love that tormented soul along with it.  
  
"Your son will live," the doctor murmured, happy to at least offer that comfort to these poor people. But by the looks on their faces he knew they knew what he did; suicide was not a physical battle. It was a long, long way back.  
  
One person could save this boy. And he watched silently invisible from a corner, knowing with a grim determination just what he had to do. 


	3. Surfacing

He'd been swimming for days; hearing voices, some in the room, some echoing from the ruined caverns of his grief-tortured mind. Images flashed before him—Iola, Vanessa, his Aunt, his parents, his brother; a lot of his brother, who he searched the room for. He couldn't remember waking up in the hospital and not having Frank nearby, either in the room or right outside it, ensuring that his younger brother was recovering. 

There; he was perched beside the bed, slumped and looking slightly weary. But something about this perfectly natural scene struck Joe as very, very wrong. He surveyed the sterile room then down at his arms, struck by how white and old everything was, then he thought how appropriate this felt to the cold inside him. He could melt away in this room, melt into it like snow, bury himself in the madness and freeze, halting his rampant, guilt-ridden thoughts.

He looked back to his brother; although Frank's shirt matched the cold white of the room, he was stood out as the only thing of color.

"Frank," Joe wheezed, stunned by how weak he felt and confused as to why seeing his brother made him both nervous and happier than he could remember being in ages. 

Frank smiled slightly. "Looks like you made it. Good thing too, because I didn't feel like chasing your soul all over the netherworld." 

"What?" Joe struggled to remember what was gong on, where he was and why he was there. He shifted and was instantly racked with fierce pain from his wrists. He glanced down and found his arms wrapped and tied tightly in gauze, unyielding. Fear skipped his heart. "Frank, what's going on?"

The older Hardy sighed and rubbed his eyes. Joe wondered when the last time he slept was. "Think for a minute. You'll remember."

Joe shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on how he'd hurt his arms, and suddenly was slapped and dizzy with a rush of memories; sprinting through blackened corridors, following the cries, the blood pouring, pooling, soaking through Frank's white shirt, the stiff cold of his older brother's body in his arms his eyes glazed over, the screams that had torn his throat raw, the march through the cemetery that had left Joe buried although it was Frank's body they gave back to the earth, the drugs and drinking and smoke and screams, wrecking his brother's room in sobbing screaming guilt induced rage, the mourning that tore sobs from his throat, finding Frank's pocket-knife on his once immaculately neat desk and flicking open the blade, still so sharp, waiting for him—

—and the darkness. 

Swimming. 

When Joe opened his eyes they were deep with tears. "Frank…aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"I _am _dead. And you came pretty God-damn close."

"But…" Joe's shattered, drowning brain fought to make sense of this. "You're here." 

"Where else would I be?"

"Frank, you're confusing me!" Joe felt suddenly terrified. "Am I crazy?"

"You've always been crazy. Now you're just being stupid too," Frank snapped, staring at his brother's wrapped arms. "What in hell would posses you to _do _something like that?"

Joe's heart sank to the floor and he shivered violently. He remembered the rest now too; he remembered cutting away at his skin, spelling the name out, inflicting physical pain that could never match the agony he went through every day missing and mourning his brother. 

"Did you really want to carry my name around for the rest of your life?" Frank's voice was gentler now as he gestured to his brother's left wrist, wrapped to the elbow with thick, taped gauze. 

"I just…" Joe faltered, suddenly shy, "I missed you…"

"Well hell, I missed you too, but you don't see me trying to destroy my immortal soul the way you almost did." Frank sighed and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, which didn't creak or sink in as if Frank were weightless. 

_Wait, he is; he's dead. And I'm hallucinating him. Nice going Hardy, you've doubly screwed yourself over this time; you're suicidal **and **psychotic._

"Are you real?" Joe whispered.

"As real as a ghost can get."

"Can everyone see you?"

"If they could I wouldn't be dead, would I?" 

"You're _confusing _me!"

"Keep your voice down! If you start talking to yourself they'll lock you up for good."

"But I'm _not _talking to myself…am I? Damn it, Frank, why can't you just tell me what's going on? Why are you always so damn complicated?"

His brother grinned maddeningly. "Is this how you talk to your big brother? I come all the way from the other side to clean up your mess and you start screaming at me in the first five minutes I'm here."

"Just tell me what's going on," Joe pleaded. "No riddles or questions. Just tell me. Please Frank?" 

The older Hardy nodded slowly. "What exactly do you want to know?"

Joe drew a deep breath and tried to think. "Who can see you?"

"You."

"Where did you come from?"

"Heaven, the netherworld, the other realm…whatever you want to call it."

"Why are you here?"

"To help you."

"But…you died nearly two months ago. Why now?"

"Well, it might have _something _to do with the fact you tried to kill yourself."

"But…I mean not everyone who does…how come…"

"Why do you get to be haunted and others don't?" 

Joe nodded.

"Well, not everyone keeps contact with this side. Most don't. But I kept popping back to check on things. Plus you have to have an incredibly strong tie with the suffering person, one that both carry after departure." He smiled gently at his younger brother. "And, well, you and I were connected." 

Joe swallowed, hard, hit by both happiness and grief at once. Frank patted his arm. 

"Don't be sad, little brother. I'm gonna hang around for awhile, to get you back on your feet. You won't see me all the time or anything, and I can't always show up when you call, because you need to heal. Besides, you can't be talking to thin air or they'll lock you up for good." 

Joe was struck with panic and reached for his brother, drawing back when his arms protested the sudden movement. "I don't want you to leave."

"Well, I've got to. I can't stick around forever. We weren't together all the time when I was alive, and it won't be any different now." Frank glanced at the clock, then the door. "I have to go."

"No!"

"Don't worry. I'll be back soon. Remember that I'm always with you, even if you can't see or hear me." He smiled warmly. "_Always._"

"Frank…"

But he was gone.


	4. Counterbalance

A/N: Let's try this again…

::Coughs:: so, um, the uh, errors, yeah…I fixed them! (blushes). Thanks for pointing them out. I do proofread, but little things always slip through. I'm good with fixing them though. 

Okay, so, thanks to EVERYONE who reviewed! I've got lots planned and I hope you'll stay with me. For now I'll leave the rating as PG-13, but I think later it will indeed go to R. I never think my writing is good enough to be really disturbing, but I guess the topic in general is. Thanks again! 

***

The phone brought Laura out of her dreamless—she'd been taking sleeping pills again—rest. She lay with her arm over her eyes, hoping Fenton or Gertrude would answer it, but she didn't hear any stirring in the house. What time was it anyway? She glanced over at the alarm and saw it was exactly noon as the message tape clicked on. 

"Hi, Mrs. Hardy, this is Vanessa...I was just wondering if you were all right. Joe and I haven't seen in each other lately, but...well, I just wanted to—"

Laura reached over and snatched the phone off the hook. "Hello, dear."

"Oh! You're there! Sorry, I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, of course not," she lied, not wanting her to know she'd been on medication again. Laura sat up and caught sight of a note from Fenton on her nightstand:

_Laura;_

_I've gone to speak with some psychiatrists about Joe. Gertrude is at the market. Take it easy. I'll call you as soon as I'm done._

_Love,_

_Fenton_

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. At least she knew why no one had answered the phone. 

"Is this a bad time, Mrs. Hardy?"

"No, no. I'm sorry dear. I appreciate you calling. It's sweet of you to worry."

"Well...I know it sounds silly, but...I mean, Joe and I never really broke up. It's just...having a girlfriend wasn't important to him after...I mean, two months ago, and I understand! I really do, it's just..."

"I know," Laura smiled to herself at the girl's nervous rambling. But she really did care about her son, although Joe had made it clear to his girlfriend that no one—not even Vanessa—was going to help him through this when he moved to Bayport University (his back-up school) instead of University of Delaware where he'd originally planned on attending with his old friends. 

_Still his friends, if he'd let anyone in._

"I understand, dear. You still care about him." She swallowed, hard, making up her mind. "Vanessa...I think I ought to tell you something, and you can decide who to share it with, although I'd appreciate it if you only told those who really need to know."

There was a pause on the other side of the line. "Is Joe all right?" she nearly whispered. Laura sighed again. _Will it ever end? I remember having this conversation, oh so similar, with Callie._

_"Is Frank all right?"_

_"I'm afraid not, dear..."_

_"He's not..."_

_"They tried to save him, honey, but he'd lost so much blood..."_

_"Oh my God...no! I'm sorry, I just...I can't...MOM!"_

Laura bit her lip to stop it from shaking. Then she spoke, almost mechanically. So many times her men had been hurt. So many times she'd dreaded the call that finally came the night Frank lost his life. Her parents had warned her when she'd gotten engaged to Fenton, cautioned her about his dangerous lifestyle. "It's in his blood, dear," her mother had said, "he'll pass it on to your children."

But she hadn't cared; been too in love to, and enjoyed sharing his cases, posing new angles, hearing about the exciting adventures and being the calm he always sought in the middle of his turbulent life. Although she feared for him, and later her sons—

_"Guess what, Mommy? I'm gonna be a detective, just like Daddy!"_

_"No fair, Mommy, I wanted to be one first! Not Frankie..."_

_"You can both be detectives, loves."_

_"Hey, __yeah! We could be partners, Joey!"_

—she'd never desired any other life. 

That is, until she buried her eldest son. 

"Oh my God," Vanessa's sudden sobs brought her back to reality. "Oh, Mrs. Hardy, that's terrible, I'm so sorry...if...there's anything I can ever do...if you need...I mean, _anything..."_

_Yes, you can help me, you can help me figure out how to drag my stubborn, wild younger son back to his senses. You were the only other person he ever turned to, who could ever break through to him. He needs balance; that's the problem. He's lost his grounded side and he's spinning around and around in a helpless circle. _

"He'll be all right, dear," she murmured, fighting her own tears. "I have faith in him, and I need you to as well. All you have to do is what you've always done; love him, whether as a friend or more, it doesn't matter. He needs you, although he won't admit needing anyone or anything right now."

"I'll do everything I can," Vanessa vowed, but both women were thinking the same thing: what he needs is unattainable, because what he needs is a counterbalance. 

What he needs is Frank. 


	5. Shrink

"Why did you try to kill yourself?" the psychiatrist asked. Joe almost laughed, her question was so stupid. She knew. Everyone knew. 

"Why not ask my parents?"

"They already told me their side. I'm interested in yours now." 

"What did they tell you?"

She sighed and crossed her legs. Joe felt slightly sorry for her; he had not given any of the therapists his mother and father had tried to get him to talk to any courtesy, although they had all been sympathetic. He didn't want to talk about it. That was all. He wanted out of the room he'd been imprisoned in for almost a week, out of this hospital, back in his dorm where at least he could think in silence. Nurses checked on him every fifteen minutes, and his parents hardly ever left. And everywhere he looked some kind-faced do-gooder was urging him to talk.  He had never been good at discussing his emotions, and he couldn't begin to try now, not when there was so much going on inside him he was unable to _try to understand. _

_Frank always knew; one look at my face and he could tell me everything I felt. Why can't anyone else see it? Why can't Frank just speak for me?_

"They told me that you lost your brother."

"I didn't."  

She raised her eyebrows and made a note on her pad. "You didn't?"

"No. It's not like I woke up one morning and, whoops! where's Frank? I must have left him in my other pants or in my locker. I didn't _misplace him."_

"He's gone..."

"Don't say 'gone' either. That sounds like he's on a trip. He didn't 'leave' or 'cross over' or any of that stuff."

"Well, what _should I say, Mr. Hardy? His death?"_

Joe flinched inwardly at the 'd-word.' He never had gotten used to it. "His murder."

"Fine. You are unable to deal with your brother's murder."

"Of course I'm unable to 'deal with my brother's murder.' Now, I could deal with Frank's _murderer, but the two-word verb 'deal with' requires a person to be the object of—"_

"Mr. Hardy, sarcasm is just a façade you have built up to hide your feelings."

"Who's being sarcastic? I'm sharing feelings here. It makes me angry when people don't understand what they're talking about. They just throw around common terms without realizing that they're making no sense." 

The doctor sighed. "Mr. Hardy..."

"Joe."

"Joe. You need to manage your grief, not bury it with alcohol or drugs or drinking—"

"Maybe I like those things."

"I'm going to recommend you see a psychologist and go on medication."

"So you want me to hide my grief behind prescription pills." 

"I want you to _stop hiding. Face reality. Frank is dead. You are not. You have to keep going. You can't give up because you lose someone." _

"Why not?"

"Because it's cowardly." 

She was trying to draw a reaction out of him, get him worked up to 'being brave' or 'toughing it out.' This was proof she had spoken to his father; he'd told his sons this since they were little. 

"It's cowardly to drive a van into a telephone pole at eighty miles an hour? It's cowardly to pop pills you've never heard of in your mouth on top of a bottle of straight vodka? It's cowardly to take a knife and carve your brother's name in your arm until you almost bleed to death? Could _you do those things?"_

"I don't need releases like that. I face my weaknesses head on."

"I face them too. My way. Which doesn't include 'deep breaths' and 'stress management.'" Joe got angrily to his feet. "We're done here. I'm going home."

"Your parents won't sign you out."

"They don't need to. I'm eighteen." 

"When you're twenty-one you can make your own healthcare decisions." 

"I've already made my own. I'm getting out of here." 

"Wait..."

He slammed the door to her office in his face. He did feel sorry for her now; for anyone who was stuck trying to save a psycho like himself. But he had to escape. He couldn't breathe in these white white corridors with the white white floors and the white white lights. They made him colder than he already was.  

_I belong here, though, on the psyche ward. I am crazy. First trying to self-destruct, then hallucinating Frank when I woke up...oh well, probably just another crazy dream. Still..._

Joe shivered and glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to find his brother behind him. But there was only the empty hallway.

"Honey?"

He spun around and found himself face-to-face with his parents. He'd almost walked right into his mother. "How was it?"

He just shook his head and shut the door to his room in their faces.   


	6. College

"It's not a good idea for you to go back to school," Fenton Hardy said slowly as his son picked nervously at the gauze on his wrists. 

"I want to, Dad."

"Joe, no."

"I'm not gonna do it again." 

Laura Hardy reached out to touch her youngest son, but he shied away. He didn't want to talk, didn't want the mush; he just wasn't good at sentimental stuff, and everything felt awkward around his parents. 

_It's like we're always waiting for **him**; we're just not complete. _

"Sweetie," Laura murmured, "college just isn't a good idea right now. So much pressure, and all those new kids who may not understand…"

"Understand _what _Mom? That I'm crazy? _You _don't understand, and _I _don't understand, and Dad and Aunt Gertrude don't understand, so why is it crucial that _they _do?"

_"Joseph_," Fenton warned, but it was a half-hearted admonishment because he knew his son was right and was too tired to try to convince him he wasn't. 

Laura sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Honey," she said slowly, and Joe knew what was coming, "we've had a really hard time with losing Frank too…"

"I don't want to talk about Frank," Joe's voice caught on his brother's name as he remembered the "conversation" he'd had with the dead teen and suddenly felt the urge to scream. 

"But that's why you did this…"

"Leave Frank out of it! No one _made _me do this! I wanted to, okay? I'm a self-centered psychotic wimp. Leave me alone." 

"That's not a way to talk to your mother," Fenton snapped as Laura winced at her son's outburst. "She didn't say that anyone _made _you…"

"I don't want to hear it. I don't want to talk about him. Or counselors or medicine or how everyone misses him and I'm a selfish bastard for trying to hurt myself and make it all about me, and I don't want to hear that it wasn't my fault that Frank died. Just leave." 

Laura turned away so her son wouldn't see her tears; they came too fast and too easily these days. She didn't know how to tell him that she understood, didn't know how to tell him that if he'd see a therapist and go on medication all of this torment would go away. Or at least enough that he could begin to rebuild himself. 

But he wouldn't, no, _couldn't _see past that night. 

_I wake up wanting to scream,_ his suicide note had read,_ feeling his blood on my arms, paralyzed with that same terror I had as we waited for help, help we knew wouldn't get there in time. No matter what you say, I know the truth. I killed him. I do love you. _

_I just love him best._

Joe curled up on his bed and covered his ears, shut his eyes, blocked them out. He didn't want their support; was too far gone to understand it. 

And Laura was just too drained to deal. She'd buried one son. She was watching the other kill himself.

She bent, kissed Joe's forehead, then quickly left the room, fumbling through her purse for tissues and Valium. Fenton patted his younger son on the back, then reluctantly followed. 

When Joe opened his eyes they were gone. 

_Just like magic. Just like Ghost Frank. Maybe they're a hallucination too. Maybe I really **did **die and this is my own private hell. _

He sat up, placed his bare feet on the cold linoleum and trekked across the floor to the barred windows on the opposite side of his room. 

_Never thought I'd end up on the opposite side of the bars. They're jailing me in, trying to keep the suicidal psycho from nose-diving out the window. Should have done that to begin with, instead of taking the risk of getting caught before losing enough blood. Stupid, stupid me, never could plan anything…_

_"Why do you have to be so damn impulsive?" _

_"It worked, didn't it!"_

_"Yeah, you got us information, but you damn near got yourself killed!"_

_"But I didn't. I'm here."_

_"You're not invincible Joe."_

Joe sighed and leaned against the metal, unable to reach the glass beyond. 

_The real cage is my mind. I'm trapped underground holding my dying brother and knowing that I'll never be whole again. _

"No, you can't jump," the voice snapped.  

Joe spun around in shock and found Frank standing behind him. 

"Even if the bars weren't there, you couldn't jump. I'd go sound the alarm."

Joe only debated for a moment whether or not he was real, then decided it didn't even matter at this point. "I wasn't going to try," he said tiredly. 

"Well, get away from the window then. There's nothing to see down there. You'd be better off thinking about how cruel you're being to Mom and Dad."

"I'm not being cruel."  

"You are so. They love you. They're trying to help you."

"I know that."

"What's your problem then?"

Joe turned to the window again. _I don't know. I don't deserve it, I guess. Frank's ambulance came too late. Why did mine have to be on time? _

"Can you fly, Frank?" he changed the subject. His brother chuckled. 

"I'm a ghost, not an X-man."

"But what if you fell?"

"I'd have a nice long drop down, land nimbly on the pavement, pick myself up, and walk to the elevator in the lobby so I could come back up here and bug you."

"You can't fly or transport yourself places or anything? How do you get around?"  
            "Same as you do."

"How'd you get here?"

"I rode in the ambulance with Dad."

Joe started and whirled to face his brother. "You were there for _everything_?"

"I _told _you I was. I'm the one who got him."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw you flipping out and wrecking my room and I saw you find the pocket-knife and I ran to get Dad to check on you."

"You can do that? I thought you said only I can see you."

"You can. But sometimes if I stay near enough to someone and talk enough I can get ideas to pop into their heads, and Dad's idea was to go and check on you. Good thing." 

Joe sighed and crossed the room slowly, slumping down on the bed. "Frank?"

"Yeah?"

"How come you're different?"

"Different? As in dead?"

"No. I mean…sarcastic, I guess. And you keep giving me riddles instead of answers. It's not like you." 

Frank smiled, but it was a nice, gentle smile, one that Joe had seen nearly everyday during his eighteen years and had come to violently miss in the last two months, the stable, assuring smile that let Joe know that Frank cared. 

"I'm here to help you heal, Joe. To help you be strong again. I can't be with you forever and I can't get you to depend on me to do things you'll have to do on your own once I'm gone."

"When are you leaving?"

"Don't worry about that. We have lots of work to do and plenty of time to get it all done."

"Work?"

"Yup. Starting with college."

"They're not gonna let me go back."

"Yes they will. But you have to get out of here first. And to do that you have to be on your best behavior and see a shrink."

"I don't want to."

"You have to. You will."

"Will you be with me?"

"I'm always with you."

"Will I be able to _see _you though?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On whether or not I think you need me."

"I _do _need you."

Frank came and settled beside his younger brother.

"No, you've convinced yourself that you can't take a breath with me gone, but that's not true. You're stronger than you think. You just need to remember that." 

Joe swallowed, hard, taking it in, swallowing his words and adding them to the emotions churning inside him. He shivered. 

"Frank…if I tell you something, will you act like you used to?"

Frank just looked at him, but his eyes were kind. "Go ahead."

"I'm scared."

Frank patted his hand, and Joe felt a wisp of his brother's cool touch. His hands weren't solid, but he distinctly felt something on his skin, so faint he could almost be imagining it. 

"Haven't I always been there for you when you felt like this? That's not changing now. We're going to get through this together. Like we always do."

"Did," Joe murmured sadly. 

Frank reached out and grasped his brother's hand in his own. "_Do_." 

The brothers shared a moment of silence, then Joe sprawled back across his bed. He was tired, but he refused to let himself sleep. The nightmare would be waiting. "Thanks, Frank."

"That's what I'm here for. And we've got to get to work." 

"Now?"

"Now. When was the last time you slept?"

"The first night I saw you."

"That was awhile ago. You should sleep."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Joe looked away, the bars looking horizontal with his head turned. _A ladder. Maybe I can climb up and out of here. _

"I have nightmares."

"Of that night?"

Joe turned and stared straight into his brother's handsome face. "About the whole case."

Frank nodded slowly. If he could still dream, he would have them to.


	7. The Case

A/N: I live in Philadelphia and though I hate football I'm cheering on my Eagles! The Superbowl is ours this year! Also, thanks to everyone who reviewed. Sorry it takes awhile to update; I'm writing this and the case to go along with it, and I want to make sure it fits together well. Let me know how I'm doing, okay? J

_"I have a case I'd like you to help with," Fenton Hardy entered the family room where his sons were watching the Eagles Playoff game. Frank sat eagerly up on the couch, while Joe stayed sprawled on the floor with his head on his arms._

_"Mmmm....let's talk about it tomorrow," the younger Hardy mumbled. Frank nudged his brother in the ribs. _

_"I never knew you to turn down a mystery."_

_"I'm not turning down anything. I'm getting my beauty rest."_

_"It's four in the afternoon."_

_"Beauty is a full time responsibility."_

_Frank chuckled and rose to follow his father into his study. "I can always work solo, you know..."_

_Joe snorted and leapt nimbly to his feet. "You'd get no where without your Watson, Sherlock." _

_Frank just grinned. _

_Fenton shut the door and slid behind his desk while his sons took the two seats before him. Their father sighed and shuffle through a pile of neatly labeled manila folders. _

_"I have to tell you," their father said slowly, "it's against my better judgment to ask you to do this."_

_"How come?" Frank asked immediately. Joe felt his own interest peak instantly. _

_"Because this man is one of the FBIs most wanted since he escaped from prison." He looked both his young sons straight in the eye. "He is very, very dangerous. I don't want you getting too involved. You are strictly on research. Do you both understand? I **forbid** too much involvement." _

_Frank and Joe glanced at each other, then nodded, not used to seeing their father so serious._

_"We've worked with dangerous types before, Dad," Joe started._

_"And you've always gotten hurt," Fenton snapped, "I want you two together at all times and **strictly** research. If you don't agree to that then you don't need to work on this. Your safety comes first." _

_"We'll do it," Joe said at the same time Frank said "Don't worry." _

_Their father sighed and flipped open one of the folders, turning it so his sons could see. "This is our guy," he said, showing them a mug shot of a muscular, dark-haired, dark-eyed man with smoldering, rebellious eyes and a smirk on his face. Joe shuddered ever so slightly, an eerie feeling of dread creeping over his skin, then receding as abruptly as it had hit him. "He calls himself the Reaper. He traveled under so many pseudonyms that no one's sure who he really is." Fenton shut the folder and flipped open another, the excerpt of a trial transcription. "He's responsible for over forty murders; all deaths by torture or extreme violence. He was very creative with his methods of killing. He'd also studied extensive medical techniques. He knew how to cut a person so they'd be in agony but die slowly. They also charged him with twenty-two counts of kidnapping, fifteen breaking and entering, two assault…you get the picture. He was sentenced to death. About two months ago he strangled a guard, dressed as a janitor and escaped from prison. The FBI already suspects him in three murder cases. We think he's just getting warmed up." _

_"How'd he work?" Frank asked, his brow furrowed in concentration, as usual, unfazed by danger._

_"He'd choose a victim at random, stalk him or her, and slowly kill off their families, then the victim himself."_

_"What do you need **us** to do?"_

_"I want you to retrace his steps." Fenton handed each boy a thick folder. "That's all the information I have on his victims. I want you to find some more. And some more on him. Try and find out who he is exactly." He watched his sons carefully. "There are pictures in there," he warned. Both boys flipped open their folders and started._

_"Jesus Christ," Joe whispered, staring in horrid fascination at the mutilated corpse before him. Frank calmly glanced at his, then pushed it behind the pile of documents. _

_"You understand why I want you to be careful now," Fenton said softly, taking in the horror on his younger son's face._

_"Don't worry Dad," Frank jumped in, glancing at Joe and offering his father and brother a smile. "We will be."_


	8. Rallying

"I came as soon as you called," the grin died from Callie Shaw's lips as a weeping Vanessa greeted her. "Oh my God! Van, what's…"

"Callie," the younger girl sobbed as her friend stepped in and embraced her. "It's Joe. He…Laura told me he tried…he hurt himself, Cal…"

Callie jumped, horror racing her heart. _No, not that, anything but that, not him too, the Hardy's couldn't possibly survive another death none of us could… _

"He's not…"

"He's alive," Vanessa murmured, her face buried on Callie's shoulder, wetting her jacket. "But Laura said it was close. Really close." She stepped away and looked at the older girl. "No one's been able to reach him, Cal. He won't talk to me, won't even come to the phone."

"I know," Callie sighed. "I've tried a few times. So has Chet and Phil and Tony and Biff…" she trailed off, suddenly, fiercely missing her dead boyfriend.   

_Damn it Frank! You should have written an instruction book on how to deal with your crazy younger brother! How did you get him to listen?_

"We have to try again," Vanessa whispered, sinking down at her kitchen table. "I always knew he should have come to school with us…we should have _made _him come with us, instead of going off on his own…"

"We had to give him space," Callie murmured, pulling a chair beside her friend. "We all needed some."

Vanessa turned, suddenly feeling guilty; as hard as this was for her, she was lucky enough to have the boy she cared about so much still be living. 

"I'm sorry to spring this on you, Cal. You barely even got in the door and I'm dumping my problems on you."

Callie smiled. "Don't worry about it. That's what friends are for, right? Just like the song. Besides," she sighed and looked away, "how many times did I call you after…Frank."

Vanessa swallowed and turned to look at the table. 

_You would be so disappointed in us, wouldn't you Frank? We abandoned Joe. Callie won't date, I won't date, Tony and Biff and Chet became distant once we all got to school. You would have rallied us, made us pull together and go on. And you certainly wouldn't have let your brother push himself to insanity. _

"We need to do something," Callie said, as if she'd read her friend's thoughts. The girls looked at each other, knowing that somehow they had to try and set things right. 

"What? He won't talk to us," Vanessa sighed. 

            "Then we make him." Callie rose and went to her friend's phone. 

            "He won't answer you."

            "I'm not calling him." She pressed the numbers she knew by heart. "I'm calling the guys. They're gonna help." She gave Vanessa a reassuring smile. "We'll _make _that thick-headed brat come to his senses." 

            Vanessa forced a smile back, blinking the tears away. _We have to. For Frank's sake._

_            For all our sakes. _

A/N: Thanks for the reviews!


	9. Distractions

A/N: Can't get enough of this: thanks for the few but loyal reviews! Really, I appreciate them.

"You're about to top your record for the stupidest things you've ever done."

Joe looked tiredly up at his Aunt Gertrude, then back at the suitcases he was re-organizing. His parents had brought everything back from his dorm room, thinking he couldn't be going back to Bayport University for the rest of the semester. Both had been shocked by their son's vehement determination to return immediately, fresh out of the psyche ward. 

_I need to be alone. And I can be there. _

"I mean it, Joseph. I used to think cutting up your arm with your brother's name was the stupidest thing ever, but you're just determined to break all your own records by insisting that you go back to school! Maybe your parents caved in, but I won't allow it." 

His Aunt had been following him about the house since he'd walked in the door, chastising him the entire time. "_Honestly_, you'd think your parents would have learned their lesson by now, that you shouldn't be running around unsupervised! They already lost one son--"

Gertrude broke off as Joe whirled around, horror on his face; shock filled her own over what she'd just thrown at him, knowing it was as cheap shot. Normally a comment like that would have enraged him; this time, it just made him sick. 

"Shutup," he whispered. 

His Aunt stood still, then slowly her eyes filled and she sank onto her nephew's bed. 

"I'm sorry," she murmured. 

Joe ignored her and stared into his suitcase. He felt cold and shock creeping on him again, as the numbness wore off. He'd felt like this so many times a day since he lost Frank. 

_Wrecked the van the night of his funeral, went out drag racing souly to destroy it, couldn't help it, it represented our partnership, our bond, that was all gone, why shouldn't our car be, hitting the pole inaugurated my self-destruction..._

_Anything brings this feeling on: his name, a song he'd liked, the smell of him lingering on one of my shirts he'd borrowed, a picture carelessly left out...anything. First, the numbness. My mind's defense from the terrible reality. Then the cold shock, then the pain—so bad and sharp on every inch of my soul I just want to scream for him, howl his name to the sky as if God would give him back or at least tell me why he took my brother and left me behind._

Unconsciously, Joe rubbed his fingers over the gauze on his arm, over his brother's stitched name. He wondered if Frank was listening, or if he could read his thoughts.

_Remember I'm with you. Always._

"Joseph, sweetheart...I'm just so worried about you. We all miss him so badly, honey. I can't imagine getting through the day with you gone too."

_I don't want to hear this I've been hearing this since his funeral its just words nothing to actually live for._

But he understood his Aunt. She had his temper; they reacted the same way—with anger—when they were scared.

"I know," Joe finally managed, "But...I _need_ to be alone now, Aunt Gertrude."

"Being alone is what got you into this mess."

"No it wasn't. Being home again was. These weekend trips here. Having his room right next door. Seeing his things again. Remembering everything we ever did together in every room of the house." He sighed and wished his father hadn't confiscated his cigarettes. "I've got to get out of here."

"Will you try it again?"

Joe swallowed and looked away.

_I won't let you jump.  _

"Not now."

"Meaning you will."

"Meaning I don't know." He turned and stared at her frightened eyes, narrowed but still loving. She'd been with them for as long as Joe could remember; their guardian, their protector. As sharp as she could sometimes be, she loved her nephews. "I'm going to try, Aunt Gertrude. I really am."

She nodded slowly. "I still don't like it. I'm going to keep tabs on you, young man. Anymore of this insane behavior and I'll haul you out of their myself." 

Joe just nodded and slammed his suitcase shut. His Aunt quietly said goodnight and shut the door softly behind her on her way out. 

Joe slumped down on his bed, looking around the room for something to distract him. He wouldn't let himself sleep. The nightmare was always there no matter where he was, but it would be much worse having it here, waking up in his house and being assaulted by memories everywhere he looked. There--his desk where Frank had helped him with homework. There—his blank bulletin board he'd once covered with photographs of his family and friends. There—the stain on the carpet, the scorch marks from the flames that had tried to eat him alive. 

And always the bathroom they'd once shared, the room that acted as the bridge to his older brother's room, no longer left untouched.

"Frank?" he asked softly, wanting his brother to materialize. No such luck, though. It had been three days now.

_Am I crazy? I saw him **twice **though!_

Joe sighed and flopped across his bed, concentrating on he ceiling and forbidding his mind from thoughts.  


	10. Heart

**Heart-to-Hearts**

A/N: Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you! Each and every reviewer! I was so surprised to get so many on the last chap, but they're really appreciated. This story's looking like it's gonna be LONG, and I hope you're all willing to stick with me. More on the case next chap!

            "Do you need anything else?" Fenton asked, a bit awkwardly, unsure how to treat this fragile boy that was his youngest son. Their conversations had been so brief, as if there was nothing to be said. Fenton longed to release the storm of emotion inside of him, an outpouring of grief and love, fear and hope. 

_            We just want to help you, baby. We never wanted to make the hurt worse. Please, can't you try to understand that?_

            "I'm fine, Dad," Joe mumbled, shoving clothes back into his drawers in his single dorm room. Fenton, Laura and Gertrude had all pushed for a double, so someone would be around to keep an eye on their recently released and still vulnerable family member, but Joe wouldn't hear of it. He was determined to have his own space.  

            _"I won't do it again. Not now."_

_            "Joseph, this 'not now' business just makes us more and more worried!"_

_            "You want worry? Keep me home. Being here is what makes me crazy."_

As much as those words had hurt, Fenton knew they were true. Being back in his room had had the opposite effect that his parents had wanted for him. They'd been hoping to calm him down, bring him back to sanity, not drive him in the opposite direction to suicide. 

            _He was on the crash course anyway. You just filled the gas tank for him. _

"Mom and Aunt Gertrude…they weren't too hurt…were they?"

            Fenton put down the hangers he'd been slipping into Joe's closet and glanced at his youngest son. But Joe avoided his eyes. 

            "They would have liked to see you off."

            "They smother me." The boy turned to stare into his father's eyes. "Dad…you understand…don't you?"

            There was a look of desperation, of pleading for understanding that the Detective had seen on cornered victim's faces; never on his son's. 

            "You don't have to feel trapped," he said softly, longing to erase the panic and replace it with the smiles he'd been so used to seeing before all this. "Joe, please, we just want—"

            "…to help, Dad, I know, please, no more heart-to-hearts, I can't stand them."

            Fenton sighed and went back to unloading suitcases. 

            _Why oh why did my sons have to be partners? Why did they have to investigate together? I once envied the bond they had; wished I had a brother to share it with, wished my sons would come to me instead of each other once and awhile. They'd always protected and defended each other, no matter what—comfort, help, advice—even when they were little. _

_            There never was any sibling rivalry. They both were smart, both athletic, but both excelled in separate areas. And they needed each other oh so badly. _

_            If only they hadn't. _

Fenton sighed to himself, watching his ghost-like younger son drift almost mechanically through his dorm room.        

            _They always faced us together, Mom and Dad; the bad guys. They love us and they know we love them. But it always was each other first. That's why Joe can't come to us now, _he thought, gazing at his silent younger son. _We're here too, Joe. We love you too. Your life was never Frank alone._

_            "I think we're done," Joe said. Fenton turned to find his son across the room, allowing distance. Fenton nodded and reluctantly stepped toward the door, then stopped and glanced back. The youngest Hardy was gazing out the window over the football field, not offering any type of goodbye. _

            "You know how much this scares us," the words burst from his mouth before he could sensor them. 

Joe turned back, nodded slowly. "I know, Dad."

 "Do you even care?" it sounded harsher than he'd meant it to. 

"Of course I care, Dad. I just…please, I need to be alone."

Fenton slowly opened the door, thought, and shut it again. "Joe, I can not take another phone call telling me one of my sons has been hurt. I can't bury you. Do you understand that? Everything I'm saying? Your mother and Aunt and I…we wouldn't survive either."

Joe's eyes widened as he turned to stare at his father. "You'd pull through…"

"No we wouldn't."

Father and son stared at each other for a moment. Joe slowly nodded. 

"I'm not gonna do it again. I promise. I won't try to hurt myself."

_Directly you won't. But I've seen what else you've done; drinking, drugs, drag-racing, starvation, smoking. I wish I had done more to stop it. _

"We love you," he said softly. "I love you."

With that he slowly left the room, closing the door on his youngest son. 

He still hadn't moved. 

***

_            Joe waited until his father had shut the door before pulling the last item from his knapsack; Frank's ankle-length black winter coat he'd slipped from his older brother's room. _

            _Why'd I bring it? Do I even know? Was Frank popping ideas in my head?_

            Joe slumped onto the bed, unnerved by the sudden silence he'd been longing for these past few days. He gazed at the jacket, then rose and opened the window to overlooking the football field. 

            _Haven't played sports in ages. Window too small to fit through._

_            I won't let you jump. _

_            Sighing, the younger Hardy fell across his bed, giving himself into exhaustion although he felt the flutter of fear that always accompanied him before he dropped off to sleep. _


	11. The Investigation

_ "This is soooo boring!" Joe fumed, turning away from the papers he'd collected to his older brother. Frank was hard at work on his laptop, but he glanced up long enough to grin at his younger brother._

_"Sorry, buddy. We did promise Dad."_

_"Can't we just go interview someone and not tell him?"_

_"Let me think…no," Frank went back to his keyboard. Joe moaned impatiently._

_"Frank this is killing me. I can't sit here and read all this junk." The younger Hardy leapt to his feet and paced back and forth impatiently. Frank sighed and checked his watch. "A half-hour more and then we'll quit, okay? We'll go for a run or something."  _

_"No."_

_"No what?"_

_"I want to quit now."_

_Frank grinned again at his seventeen year old brother's two-year old behavior. "We'll go for a run and I'll buy you lunch." _

_"Oh come on, Frank, now. It's not good for you to sit in front of that computer all day."_

_Frank sighed, but as always maintained his patience "I'm downloading some files that FBI contact sent me, on criminal psychology. I don't want to sign off in the middle of a download."_

_"Frankiiiiiiiiiie…" Joe begged, laughing at his brother's disgust at his childhood nickname, "pleeeeease…"_

_Frank's eyes widened suddenly. "Shutup and look at his," he snapped, turning his laptop toward his whiny younger brother. Joe crossed the room and pulled up a chair. The screen was filled with solid, small print text only Frank could have the patience to pour through. Joe sighed just looking at it. _

_"Exactly what…"_

_"Here. 'Criminals are often obsessed wit order of some sort, even if it is an order that only makes sense to them.'"_

_"Big deal. You know that. Anyone who's watched _Law and Order_ knows—"_

_"Let me finish. This 'Reaper' is a perfect example of this. He chose his victims primarily at random, but he chose the town they came from with a remarkably specific order." _

_"Does it say what?"_

_"No, but it's not hard to figure out."_

_"For **you**, you mean, Sherlock."_

_"Shutup, Watson." Frank pulled up the list of victims and their residences, then searched through an elaborately organized folder system and came up with a file labeled Victims + Spouses. "Okay. Each new victim came from the town of the previous victim's spouse, partner, fiancé, whatever. Romantic attachment."_

_"What if there wasn't one?"_

_"That was like immunity. When he checked them out there had to be. It was part of the way he killed." Frank minimized the one file and pulled up another. "Here's the creepy part. Look here."_

_Joe leaned over and squinted into the monitor to the entry at the bottom of the page:_

_BILL DAVIDS_

_Born: February 4, 1967_

_Died: April 3, 1998_

_Wife: Elise Davids_

_Hometown: Bayport_

_"Bayport as in…our Bayport?" Joe asked softly, looking up at Frank with nervous eyes. His older brother just nodded. _

_"It's like…fate, I guess. More than coincidence, that he'd end up in the same town as Dad."_

_"And us," Joe murmured, feeling a sudden chill as he remembered the eyes gazing at him from the folder. _

_"On that note," Frank said slowly, "think you can wait an extra half-hour?"  _

_"On that note," Joe muttered, pushing his chair away and returning to his piles of papers, "I'll work round the clock."_


	12. Forgivness

A/N: Thanks to all reviews. Please, keep them coming, they are MUCH  appreciated! Let me know if I bore you. 

"FRANK!!!"

Joe awoke as he did so often, screaming his brother's name, his body convulsing, sweat matting his hair, coating his skin. He pulled and pulled on his imaginary bonds, feeling tears soaking his cheeks. 

"Shhh, shhh," gentle, light fingertips brushed over his wrists and hair. "Open your eyes. You're awake now. 

Joe turned to his side; all he was able to do. He was so scared he could barely move. "Frank," he gasped to his almost brother beside him. "I'm…I'm sorry…"

"Shhhh," Frank murmured. "Just breathe. Relax. I'm here, you're safe."

Joe balled up on the bed, whimpering and shaking. Frank knelt on the floor and ran his transparent fingertips over his brother's gold locks. 

"Same stupid dream?"

Joe nodded. "I _hate _sleeping…"

"Don't worry. We're gonna get this bastard out of your head and—"

"Damn it, Frank, it'll _never _get out of my head! It's all I ever think about! Everything I see or hear or touch brings me back to that night."

"It won't always," Frank said firmly, "I promise it won't."

"How could it _not_?" Joe buried his face in his pillow. "Why did it _happen_, Frank?"

His brother didn't answer. Instead he perched on the edge of Joe's bed. "I can't really answer that. I don't know myself." 

Joe sat up slowly, wiping at his tears, embarrassed he'd shed them. "Where'd you go?" he asked suddenly. 

"Go? I didn't go anywhere."

"I haven't seen you for days."

"I told you you wouldn't."

"But if you're _here_, why can't you tell me?"

Frank sighed. "I _have _told you."

"Mom and Dad didn't want me to come back."

"Can you blame them?"

"No," Joe gazed at the bandage he kept wrapped around his wrist, hiding the stitches, hiding the name. "I wish I could make them understand that I won't do this again."

"How can you do that when you haven't convinced yourself?"

The younger Hardy looked sharply at his brother. "I'm not."

"You _say _that, but you don't feel it yet. You want to be with me."

"Of course I do."

"Well, hurting yourself this badly won't make that happen. It'd have the opposite effect, Joe."

"You mean…" he bit his lip and swallowed, hard. "There's a hell?"

"Sorta."

"How can there be a _sorta _hell?"

Frank chuckled. "It's like heaven, sorta. I can't describe it really."

"You _can't_, or you don't know how?"

"Both, actually. Heaven's not really a _place_, same as hell, but it's not a state of mind or anything either. It just…is. I mean, after you die, that's it. You're free to rome. You can wander around here, or go up, or go down. It's all up to you."

"That's it? But…what are you trying to do? Be reborn?"

"Find peace. That's all. Once you do that everything else falls into place."

"Meaning?"

"I'm not sure myself. Most souls take at least a few decades to get there."

"You're not at peace, Frank?"

"I wouldn't say that," the older Hardy smiled. 

Joe was suddenly overcome with curiosity; everyone on earth wondered to some degree about the afterlife, and here was his chance to actually _know_. At least as much as Frank would tell him. 

"When you die, do you see a white light and hear voices and all that?"

Frank laughed. "Only if you're on LSD. That stuff's all made up."

"What happened to you?"

Frank sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I felt myself fading. I grew weaker and weaker, said what I had to say to you, and everything went black, and then just like that I was standing next to you. I wasn't scared or anything; I felt really calm. I sat down and put an arm around your shoulders and watched you scream and waited for Dad. And then I rode to the hospital and stayed with you while you were in shock, and when you were finally home I stepped over and spent a little time on the other side, then came back to check on you. I was just in time for my funeral."

Joe was dumbfounded. "You were there for all that?"

"I've been here for most everything, especially when I saw you going nuts on me. Why'd you wreck the van?"

Joe swallowed and looked away. 

_"Wanna race, punk?"_

_I was half-drunk when he challenged me, getting more so, still in the black suit I'd worn to the funeral, agreed, of course, wanted to feel speed, wanted to focus on something other than my dead brother, couldn't get his face out of my head, almost floored the accelerator, the pole just presented itself but stupid, stupid drunk me couldn't steer straight and hit the passenger side instead of the driver's, that's the only reason I lived Con Riley told me. Like I cared. _

"Because I missed you."

"Ah, _that's _logic."

"_You _were the logical one," Joe snapped. Frank shook his head. 

"I had a hell of a time climbing out of the passenger side, you know."

Joe started. "You were _in _the car?"

"Jesus, how many times are you gonna make me say it! I'm—"

"—always with you. I know, I know." Joe sighed. "So, what about others?"

"Others?"

"Other souls."

"Oh, I see them occasionally." Frank suddenly bit his lip, and Joe recognized the silent debate going on his brother's head. He'd seen it countless times on cases, but also when Frank knew something and wasn't sure exactly how or if he should tell his brother. "I saw Iola."

Joe's stomach sank and he seized the edge of the mattress. "Christ, that is _not_ funny, Frank…"

"Well, it's not supposed to be funny. It's the truth. She was one of the first people I looked for."

The younger Hardy swallowed. "Can I see her?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"She broke contact with this side. She didn't want to see people grieve for her."

"Did she…"

"Yes, she asked about you. She said to forgive yourself and find love with someone on earth."

Joe's eyes burned with tears. 

_Did she know about Vanessa? I did find love with her. But stupid me, I couldn't handle anything after the funeral, after wrecking the van. I drove her away. She still calls sometimes…oh, who am I fooling? She must have someone by now. _

"Forgive myself," Joe murmured. "Easier said than done."

Frank's face softened, and he reached out and laid his hand on his brother's shoulder, his touch so faint it could almost be imagined. 

"That's where I come in."


	13. Guilty

"I can't believe Joe would do this," Chet Morton sighed. His friend's faces mirrored his shock; and grief. 

Vanessa wiped her red eyes and tried not to tear up again. Callie handed her a tissue.

"Okay, so we're all shocked, and we're all upset, and if you're anything like me we're all kicking ourselves. But enough of that. Time to think like…" Callie paused, the name hurting to say, "Frank."

Everyone fell silent upon hearing the name. Vanessa shivered; moments like this, she could swear the dead boy was nearby. 

_I wish you were Frank. Give us a sign. Tell us how to fix Joe. You're the only one who knew how. _

Tony broke the silence. 

"First things first then. We should all call Mrs. Hardy and tell her that we'll do anything to help out. Then we should call Joe."

"I've tried that," Biff Hooper broke in. "He won't call back, or he won't come to the phone."

"We've all tried," Callie said. "But I guess we have to try harder."

"How? We can't force him to spend time with us."

"We'll stalk him, so to speak. We'll call every day, each of us. We'll go to his dorm room. Anything. Guys, whether Joe knows it or not, he needs us right now. And we owe it to him to try. We owe it to Mr. and Mrs. Hardy to try. And…you know what I mean." 

But as everyone nodded their agreement, Chet sat silent, looking dazed. Vanessa noticed.

"Chet?" she asked softly. "You okay?"

The boy slowly shook his head. "I don't think so."

"What's wrong?"

He grinned half-heartedly, a nervous half-hearted gesture. "It's hard…you know…I don't like losing people."

Silence fell on the group, paying quiet tribute to their first loss; Chet's sister, Iola. 

Biff patted his friend's arm. "None of us do." He turned back to the group. "Okay guys, let's admit it; we've all had a rough time. And we all ditched Joe because he reminded us of Frank."

Vanessa wiped her eyes with a trembling hand. "I never ditched him," she whispered. 

"I didn't mean it in a negative way, Van. We just kinda did."

Callie sighed. "All right, we established that. Now what are we going to do about it?"

"I agree with you, Cal. We'll call him every day. And show up at his dorm. And just keep showing him that we haven't really forgotten about him."

"But none of that worked in the past," Tony pointed out. "Why should it work now?"

"We'll _make _it work," Callie said firmly.

Chet sighed. "Anyone else ever wish Frank and Joe weren't so close?"

Everyone hung their heads; it was another offense they were guilty of.

A/N: sorry it's a little short, I'm getting back in the swing of things.


	14. Run

"…and so if you open to chapter thirteen…" the professor cut himself off as Joe shut the door behind him. 

"Well, well, hello Mr. Hardy. Welcome back."

Joe nodded to the curious eyes that turned on him, clenching his hands into fists to hide the sweat coating them. 

_Stop looking at me stop damnit I'm not a freak stop looking at me like I'm one just leave me alone why can't you just leave me alone…_

Like so many other times before, Joe suddenly wished Frank was beside him. But his brother had been gone for days again, and the younger Hardy knew now it was useless to try and get him to appear on demand. 

"Take a seat. Glad to have you with us."

Joe just nodded and walked quickly to the back of the room, sliding in an empty desk beside a blond who flashed him a gentle smile. Joe didn't respond, but stared at her a moment to long, causing her to look away uncomfortably. 

_Vanessa._

The younger Hardy stared blankly at the professor, but his mind wandered to his girlfriend—or was she his ex-girlfriend?—the second girl he had ever loved. 

Loved.

_I'm sure she's moved on, sure she wasn't going to wait for you, especially a **psycho **like you…_

_I saw Iola. _

Iola. 

_Have you forgotten her, Hardy? A blonde comes along and BAM! no more dead girlfriend! Who do you think you're fooling? You're a murderer. You killed the two people you loved most. _

Slowly, Joe rolled up his shirtsleeve, revealing the stitches that spelled the name—the painful name, the beloved name: Frank. 

The gasp beside him caused Joe to yank his sleeve back into place, but not before the blonde beside him had seen the violence he'd inflicted on himself. 

_Oh well, just one more person who knows how crazy you are. _

Joe suddenly, desperately, wanted to flea the class; the girl beside him, the intense fluorescent lights, the professor's endless, droning speeches he couldn't focus on. 

_Frank. I need you. Please…_

_Remember…_

Joe jumped—it was as if his brother had hissed something in his ear

_Did he?_

_…I'm with you…_

"Mr. Hardy?"

Every eye in the room was on him. Joe hadn't realized he was swaying, and he suddenly felt grateful for the solidness of the desk in front of him; if it wasn't there, he was afraid he'd slump forward in a dead faint. 

"Are you all right?"

"Fine," he gasped, too quickly. "May I…be excused?"

The professor nodded, frowning in concern. Joe bolted from the classroom, shutting the door too quickly and loudly behind him. 

"What do you think you're doing?"

The younger Hardy whirled around; his brother was leaning on the wall beside him. 

"What are _you_ doing? Popping ideas in my head?"

"I was trying to help you."

"Thanks a lot," he mumbled, heading away down the hall. 

"You can't run forever, Joe," Frank called after him. 

Joe didn't answer: he already knew. 


	15. The Name

_"Why do you have to be so damn impulsive?" _

_"It worked, didn't it!"_

_"Yeah, you got us information, but you damn near got yourself killed!"_

_"But I didn't. I'm here."_

_"You're not invincible Joe."_

_Joe rolled his eyes at his older brother's ranting. The two were speeding away from the Bayport Police Station, where Joe had broken into the main office in the middle of the night to try and uncover the Reaper's real name based on the list of new residents from the area. He'd done it—barely—then called Frank as he ran from an armed guard inside the station. Just as the older Hardy had pulled the van up, the guard had opened fire, taking Joe to be a burglar; the younger Hardy had nimbly ducked and leapt into the van, but not before Frank had put the pieces together._

_"You told me you were going to study with Vanessa."_

_"Right. Because you would never have let me otherwise."_

_"Dad **forbid **too much involvement. Remember that?"_

_"What he doesn't know won't hurt him."  _

_"But it could hurt **you**."_

_"But it didn't. Here I am. None the worse for wear."_

_"Joe! We made him a promise!"_

_The younger Hardy sighed; his brother was always a stickler for following the rules. _

_"So do you want to know what I think his name is?"_

_"No. I want you to admit you did something incredibly stupid that could have gotten you killed."_

_"Chill out, Frank. **I **almost got hurt, not you. What does it matter?"_

_"What does it **matter**? Where the hell would I be if you hurt yourself?"_

_"I don't know…fine?"_

_"Joe! Damnit, sometimes I could kill you myself! You make me crazy!" Frank was shouting, but Joe knew he was lightning. _

_"Come on, Frank, quit worrying so much. I'm fine. You're fine. It's all good. Don't worry."_

_Frank set his jaw and drove faster, his signal that he was angry. Joe put his head on his older brother's shoulder._

_"Forgive me?"_

_"No."_

_"Yes you do."_

_"Do not."_

_"You're my best friend."_

_"I hate you."_

_"Story of my life."_

_Frank finally, slowly, grinned and shook his brother off. "You are such a brat."_

_"Yeah, well, that's why you love me."_

_The older Hardy sobered, then through an awkward glance at his brother. "Remember that."_

_Joe always would._


	16. Reminisce

"Any word from Joe?"

Fenton didn't raise his head; he didn't want to look his distraught wife in the eyes, didn't want to tell her to know he was half-mad with worry about their younger son. She was upset enough without her husband adding to it. 

"I'm sure he's busy," he said easily, knowing she wouldn't be convinced. There was just no consoling either of them.

Laura Hardy sighed and came slowly into her husband's study, glancing absentmindedly at some of the papers strewn about his desk—all bills, he'd given up investigating—and finally perching on the arm of one of the two chairs he'd set up opposite him.

_Which son sat here the night he told them about the case? They shouldn't have been involved. We shouldn't have let them be involved. _

She knew it was useless to think about but she did nonetheless: her sons, her babies, why did she ever let them investigate? They were so _young_. 

_It's in our blood Mom. You understand, right?_

Oh Frank…

"He'll be all right, Laura."

Her husband's voice startled her. She nodded in his direction, then caught sight of a picture on his desk; a picture of the four of them. 

All four. So perfect. So…_complete_. 

Laura reached a trembling hand out and touched the frame, but her husband hastily pulled the photo away from her.

"Don't torture yourself, love."

"What do you call leaving that out?"

Fenton sighed and turned the picture face down. "I need it. To remember. Otherwise I'll block them from my mind because it's too painful."

"Block them from your mind? How is that possible?"

Her husband stared at her in distress. "I just do."

The two were silent. Fenton went back to his bills. Laura pulled her sweater closer—she was always so cold now—and gazed apathetically about the room. 

_Cold now. Bare. He tore down all the newspaper clippings, all the awards. He didn't care anymore. I know you blame yourself, Fenton. I know how painful it is for you to stay away from the work, from chasing bad guys. I know you miss him. Both of them. _

_Oh Frank.  We needed you so much. What would you do now? How would you show your brother that he's not at fault, that his life is worth living? Frank? You always could. _

"Frank wouldn't have let us give up. He wouldn't have let us leave Joe alone."

Fenton stared at her with so much pain she almost regretted saying anything. But it was true. And he needed to hear it. 

"I know."

"We shouldn't then. For his sake."

"Damnit Laura, what do we do? Follow him to school? Make him live at home? We both know that's not the answer."

"We should visit him."

Her husband looked away. "Give him time. Give him space."

"We did! And he nearly killed himself because of it!"

"He needs to learn not to blame himself. He needs to forgive himself."

"But he _can't_. Not without help."

"He'll learn through therapy."

"He needs Frank."

"Godamnit Laura!"

"Well, it's true."

"I know that, Gertrude knows that, the whole Godamn town knows that, and our insanely stubborn and bull-headed son still knows that! There's not need to rub it in! All of this happened because Frank's not here!"

Laura was stunned by her husband's outburst, but instantly ashamed of her own ignorance. 

_Why is it I always state the obvious? Or maybe I just was realizing it. Or maybe I just want to say Frank's name. It makes him feel more real, more there. _

_More with us. _

"I'm sorry."

Fenton sighed and rubbed his eyes. "No. I am. I was out of line."

"You said the truth."

Her husband looked away. He was quiet for a moment. She reached out and turned the photograph back upright, caressing the glass. 

"I miss him too, Laura."

"I know, baby."

Silence again. Their conversations felt strained, felt faked. Laura was tired of trying to keep them up. Everything seemed to make her tired lately; being in the house and being out, talking and silence, thinking and blocking thoughts. She was worn out with it all, worn out with the misery that had settled in a hideous lump in her chest and felt lodged there, refusing to surface as tears. And this house…the walls seemed to echo. 

_Guess what Mommy?_

"You remember when Joe went through his nightmare stage? Every night he'd wake up screaming. We'd sleep with him and sit with him and it didn't make a difference. And how long did it take Frank to straighten him out…three days? Four? He felt so much safer with him."

"Laura…"

"I remember too, the time Frank broke the garage window, and Joe lied and said it was him, and when we figured out it had been Frank Joe insisted that we punish him too for lying, and they both were grounded. He must be the only kid who actually _wanted _to be punished."

"Honey…"

"And clothes shopping. My God I had the hardest time. Frank liked polo shirts and khakis, but Joe was so trendy. Plus there sizes were so different. I always thought, having two sons close together, they could just share, but no; they were such _opposites…_"

Fenton seized his wife's shoulders and shook her. "What's wrong with you?"

Laura was stunned to realize her cheeks were soaked with tears. Her nose was running; she didn't bother wiping it. 

"I want to remember the good times. There were good times. I'm afraid to pretend they didn't exist, afraid I'll forget what my children were like the way you try to…"

Her husband wrapped her in his embrace, rocked her as she sobbed. It was the first time they'd hugged in awhile, the first time they'd touched in days. He stroked her hair, rubbed her back. Reminiscing was just too painful. For both of them. 

But they were not alone; it was hard on the ghost boy, who watched invisible from a corner. 

The boy who had watched his family fall apart.  


	17. Silence

            Joe moaned; he couldn't hear Frank's screams over the banging that resounded off the walls. He turned one way, then the next, struggling to follow the sound of his brother's voice. 

            "Joe?"

            The younger Hardy spun around; was that him? It couldn't be, Frank was still screaming…

            "Joe? Are you in there?"

            Joe sat straight up, his heart pounding, soaked, as always, in cold sweat. Where was he? What time was it?

            He glanced at his wristwatch; noon. Shit. He'd missed a class.

            "Joe, please. Answer me."

            The door. Someone was knocking on the door. Right. Answer it. Act sane.

            The younger Hardy crossed the room to find Phil Cohen on the other side.

            "Hi," the boy smiled awkwardly, then frowned at his friend's appearance. "Joe, what's wrong?"

            Joe rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Nothing. A nightmare. Nothing big."

            "You look awful."

            "Thanks."

            "I'm sorry. But you do. Your weight…Joe, have you been eating?"

            Joe jumped, then stared down at his body. His once tight t-shirt hung off of him, covering the bagginess of his pants. He hadn't been eating, not regularly, not meals. He hadn't even realized he'd lost weight. 

            Phil was frowning at him, but Joe recognized the look in his eyes: concern. 

            _Everyone has too much of it for me nowadays. _

            "What do you want?" he asked harshly, abruptly. Phil shifted uncomfortably. 

            "Just to know if how you're doing. It's been awhile."

            "You should have called."

            "You never pick up the phone. You never return my calls."

            "I'm busy."

            Phil sighed and looked away. "I'm sorry. I've been worried. Callie…told us."

            "Told you what?" Joe demanded. 

            His friend looked awkwardly down the halls, conscious of students listening, eager to catch a glimpse of the crazy boy in single eight.

            "Listen, can I come in? Let's just talk for a few minutes."

            Joe stepped silently aside and let him pass, then shut the door firmly behind him, blocking the onlookers. 

            "Sorry about the mess," he mumbled, stepping over the piles of dirty clothes—he never did laundry anymore—books and papers. 

            "Don't worry. Mine's worse."

            "Right. How's Michigan U?"

            "All right. A little difficult."

            "What's your major?"

            "Computer science."

            Joe sighed. "You were always so ambitious." 

            Phil frowned and sat slowly on the edge of Joe's bed. The younger Hardy fought the urge to move away.

            "So were you."

            Joe nodded vaguely and turned away to stare out the window. 

            "So why are you here?"

            Phil swallowed and took a deep breath. "Van and Callie told us you…hurt yourself."

            _Vanessa?_

            "Vanessa knows?" Joe almost whispered.

            "Yeah. Your Mom told her."

            "Godamnit…"

            "Joe, we're worried. That's all. I just wanted to know if you were okay. How you're doing. You never talk to us anymore."

            "I've been busy."

            "Bull."

            Joe glared at his friend. "Who are you to judge me? You're never around."

            "I know. I'm sorry for that. I wish I had been. But you also never pick up the phone, or write."

            "I told you…"

            "You're busy. Sure."

            Joe fell silent, growing angry at his friend's words, knowing they were true. Phil picked awkwardly at the stained bedspread, uncomfortable in the silence. Joe could feel what he wanted to say, knew what was coming before his friend opened his mouth.

            "Joe, I know you miss your brother…"

            "I don't want to talk about Frank," Joe snapped. Phil shut his mouth, but only for a moment.

            "Why not?"

            Joe turned, startled. "What?"

            "Why not?"

            "Because…I just don't."

            "I know you miss him…"

            "Stop!"

            "Joe, we all do."

            "I don't want to hear it," the younger Hardy hissed.

            "You're not alone. We all want him back. But hurting yourself isn't the answer. It won't give him back…"

            Joe rose quickly. "Are you done? Because I have things to do."

            Phil stared him down. Joe shifted uncomfortably. 

            "He was one of my best friends. I miss him Joe. A lot. I want to help you. Will you let me?"

            The younger Hardy returned his stare. 

            "You should go," he said quietly, opening the door. "I want you to go."

            Phil rose, clearly distressed. "Come hang out with us one night."

            "I'm busy."

            "Make some time."

            "I can't. I have make-up work."

            Phil moved slowly toward the door, then hesitated and turned to his friend. 

"We miss _you_ too."

            Joe looked down at the white tiles on the floor, the few visible beneath the carpet of filth he was too sad to clean.  

            "You should go," he repeated. 

            Phil reached out and squeezed his younger friend's shoulder.

            "Hang in there, buddy. We're rooting for you."

            Joe just nodded and eagerly closed the door behind him. Phil didn't understand. No one understood.

            _You don't either. _

            "Frank?" he asked softly, hoping desperately for an answer from his brother. But his only answer was the silence of his room. 


	18. Vanessa

Vanessa Bender sighed, sat up, and turned her light on. Sleep was hopeless; she couldn't get her mind off of Joe.

_You haven't spoken in months,_ she thought to herself, sighing and rubbing her eyes. _How could you even wonder if he still cares about you? How could you think it was even important? He's got bigger problems now. _

Tears filled her eyes as she remembered that Joe had tried to kill himself; what would possess him to do it? How _could _he do it? 

            _He doesn't deserve so much unhappiness, he's such a good person, a wonderful, amazing person, he always was—_

_            —and at that same time he was so stubborn, so bullheaded, never listening to anyone, never believing when we told him the truth…_

_            Even Frank. He didn't always believe Frank…_

_            Van?_

_            Hey, what's up?_

_            I need your help. We have to get off this case, Van, and my stupid brother won't listen to me…_

_            What's wrong with the case?_

_            I screwed up, Van, and if I don't get us off soon Joe might get hurt…_

            "Vanessa?"        

            Her mother's voice snapped her out of her memories.         

            "Mom?"

            Mrs. Bender opened the door to her daughter's room. "Sweetheart, what are you doing up?"

            Vanessa sighed. "I couldn't sleep."

            "What's wrong?"

            Vanessa bit her lip and looked at her mother with wet eyes. 

            "Joe," she whispered. 

            Mrs. Bender nodded and sat beside her daughter.

            "I don't know, Mom, I just keep thinking of him. Of…us, I guess. But mostly about him, and…how he did this to himself. I just don't understand it."

            Her mother brushed a few strands of hair off her daughter's forehead. "Honey, think of how close he was to Frank. You remember what he was like at the funeral. And afterward."

            Vanessa did. 

            _Silent, he sat, not speaking to anyone, wouldn't look at us, wouldn't even acknowledge we were there, refused to stand in line afterward, he just stood by the coffin, staring at his brother, as if willing him to wake up, we all knew he was in pain but he wouldn't even let us try to help him. Callie cried…and all the Hardy's…and me…even the guys…but not him. He was a statue. Until they went to move him to the cemetery…that's when he reacted, running out the back of the church, disappearing we heard nothing from him until Con Riley called to say he'd crashed the van…_

            "But he's such a good person," she murmured, thinking of all the people Joe had helped, of how kind he was, how eager to aid the innocent, those in need…

            "You should tell him that."

            "I don't know how if he won't take my calls."

            "Keep trying. Don't give up." Mrs. Bender looked her daughter square in the eyes.

            "That boy needs people who won't give up." 

            _Like Frank,_ Vanessa thought sadly, knowing that months ago, deep in a secret basement underground, weak and bleeding in Joe's arms, Frank had. 


	19. Callie

Vanessa was not alone in her late-night solitude. 

Callie Shaw was curled in the easy-chair in her family room looking through photo albums.

_There were good times, _she'd written in her journal. _Sometimes I forget them, everything seems so sad nowadays. But Frank and I were happy, and it's important that I remember that._

Frank, she thought with a sigh, tracing her fingers over a picture of the two of them taken the summer prior to the boys' last case. A wonderful, happy summer. The prelude to the worst year of her life. Of all their lives. 

_Callie…_

The girl leaned her head against the easy chair and shut her eyes, fighting the tears.

…_I love you baby…_

Frank had seemed like the perfect boyfriend; brilliant, sensitive, caring, eager to please, loyal. She'd trusted him completely; she would have given him her life.

_He spoke of going to college together, hinted in his shy way that he wanted to stay with me. Too shy to say the words, but I knew how much he loved me; it was amazing to think of, because God I loved him back…_

She'd cried for five hours straight the night of his murder, a weeping mess in her mother's arms, inconsolable. He was gone. The love of her life. Not another high school fling—her mother insisted that's all he was—she knew that what they had had been special, had set them apart.

_God, I was so happy,_ she thought, looking at a photo of the group of them, taken at the school's senior picnic. Tony, Biff, Chet, Phil, Frank, me, Vanessa, Joe—

Joe. 

Callie sighed and ran her fingers over her boyfriend's brother's face. She'd come to care about him as well; although they did play tug-of-war with Frank, he'd been grudgingly affectionate, and she'd come to view him as her own brother, although she'd never share with him the bond he and Frank had. 

_Oh Joe, I want so badly to help you, to show you that you can move on. I have. And that doesn't mean that I don't miss him or that I stopped loving him. It's just that I have to live without him. And so do you. _

_Frank baby? Something bothering you?_

_Oh, Cal, I messed up, big time…_

_What do you mean?_

_This case we're on. I made a mistake. And Joe might pay for it. We've got to get out…_

Callie shut the album and drew a pillow to her face to muffle her sobs.

_You wanted to save Joe from that madman,_ she thought, remembering the discussion they'd had about the Reaper's case, their final case. _You never thought his worst enemy was himself. _


	20. The Woman

_"Hey, that woman? Elise Davids? The wife of the Reaper's last victim. She lives over near Callie, can you believe it?"_

_Frank glanced at his younger brother in the passenger seat of their van. Since Joe's run-in at the police station, the brothers had been working round the clock to try to aid their father catch the man with the name Joe had come up with; but the Reaper was tricky, and no matter how hard they searched they came up with nothing. So it was back to the papers, which the two of them poured over non-stop. _

_"Over near Callie?"_

_"Yup. She's what, 316? 318?"_

_"317."_

_"Close enough. Anyway, Elise Davids is 408, right down the street. She moved back home after her husband's murder.""_

_"408?"_

_"Yup."_

_Frank frowned and stared intently at the road. _

_"Something wrong?"_

_"Yeah, I don't like her being so close to Callie. That is, if the Reaper's still around."_

_"But he wont' hurt her, right? Didn't he go after her husband?"_

_"Yeah, but remember; his next victim will come from this town."_

_Joe stretched and yawned; the hours of hunching over paperwork were taking their toll._

_"What are you thinking?" he asked Frank, recognizing the thoughtful look on his brother's face._

_"Nothing," Frank lied, turning their van toward home. _

_"Do you want to stake her place out? We could keep an eye our for trouble…"_

_"Joe, you remember what Dad said."_

_"Sitting in the van watching some lady's house is hardly too much involvement!"_

_"Who'd we be watching for? All we have is a name, and that's even shaky."_

_Joe glared at him. "Just because **you **didn't find it doesn't mean…" _

_"That's not what I meant…"_

_"Oh yes it is. Anytime I do anything without your permission you automatically classify it as a screw-up…"_

_"Joe! That isn't what I meant. Relax. Don't argue with me when there's nothing to argue about."_

_Joe rubbed his eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm just really worn out."_

_Frank smiled warmly. "I know all this paperwork is killing you."_

_"Yeah. I want to do something. **Anything**_! _Frank, this guy is on the loose, in Bayport, **our** Bayport and we're sitting around reading lists of new citizens and ancient case files!"_

_"We promised Dad we'd stay out of it. Don't worry. He's on it, round the clock. So is Chief Collig and Con Riley and half the police department."_

_"And yet they can't find him. Meanwhile he's stalking around, maybe choosing his victim, maybe choosing someone we **care **about…" he clamped his mouth shut, too angry to go on."_

_Frank took a hand off the wheel and rested it on Joe's shoulder. "Come on, Joe. Don't think like that. I mean, really, what are the odds of him selecting someone we know? We just have to sit tight and trust that things are going to work out. Because they are, Joe. They always do."_

_The younger Hardy sighed and leaned against the passenger side window. "I'm sorry, Frank. I'm just worried. And sick of all this."_

_Frank nodded, squeezed his brother's shoulder, and turned back to the road. "You look tired."_

_"I am."_

_"Why don't I drop you off at home?"_

_"Drop me off? Where are you going?"_

_"I'm going to run an errand."_

_"Going to see Callie?"_

_Frank didn't smile. _

_"Close enough."_


	21. Team

Joe's hands shook as he lit a cigarette, staring at himself in the mirror. He couldn't believe how much weight he'd lost without meaning to. He couldn't help it; the thought of food made him physically ill.

"He's right about your weight you know."

Joe jumped and dropped his cigarette; miraculously, Frank whisked it away. 

"You shouldn't be smoking."

"Damnit Frank, quit sneaking up behind me!"

"What would you rather have me do?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "Why didn't you stick around after class the other day?"

"You didn't need me."

"Yes I did."

"No, you didn't."

"Then why'd you show up?"

"I was trying to help you calm down. I saw you freaking out during class."

Joe sighed and lay down on his bed; he couldn't seem to stop sleeping nowadays, and the confrontation with Phil had worn him out. 

"Don't. Come on, let's take a walk."

"I don't want to."

"You shouldn't give in like this, Joe. You're letting the depression get to you."

"Oh well."

"Joe."

The younger Hardy sighed and balled up unhappily. "I don't see the point in doing any of it."

Frank ground out Joe's cigarette and moved silently across the room, perching beside his brother on the bed.

"Including eating?"

Joe groaned. "I know, I know, I've lost weight…"

"A lot, Joe. I mean…you look unhealthy." 

"Thanks."

"I'm sorry, buddy. You do." Frank rose and held out a hand to his younger brother. "Come on. Come with me."

"No."

"Yes. We're going for a walk, and you're going to eat something."

"No."

"You're just going to lie here?"

"Yes."

"That's just great."

Joe pulled a pillow over his face.

"Leave me alone," he mumbled.

"You want me to go?"

"No!" Joe sat up quickly. "No. I just…don't make me leave, okay?"

"Well, what do you want to do instead?"

The younger Hardy thought for a moment. 

"Tell me something I didn't know when you were alive."

Frank grinned. "I told you just about everything."

"Come on. There must have been something I didn't know."

"Well…Callie and I were having sex."

"Frank!" Joe turned bright red. "Something less graphic!"

"You and Vanessa didn't?"

"No!"

"Well, there's something I didn't know."

Joe groaned and turned on his back. "Be serious!"

"Oh, lighten up. I was hoping you'd smile."

The younger Hardy faked a grin. "Happy now?"

"No. All right, I'll be serious. Something you didn't know…" Frank bit his lip, thinking. "Okay. Remember two years ago when I quit the track team?"

"Sure. I bugged you about it for days."

"Well, the reason I did was because the coach had told me he wanted me to be the first cross-country runner, although I told him you wanted it. When he wouldn't give it to you I left. I didn't want us fighting.

Joe was touched. "You did that for me?"

"Sure."

"Aw, Frank…"

"Don't get all mushy on me," Frank grinned. "Your turn."

Joe thought for a minute, then suddenly became shy. 

"You know…for college, the essays you have to write?"

"Sure."

"Well…the one I picked…I mean, I picked the person one. You know, write about someone whose influenced your life, and tell why?"

"Yeah."

"Well…I…I wrote about you." Joe felt his face grow hot. Frank smiled. 

"What'd you write?"

Joe looked away, embarrassed. "I talked about how smart you were, and how well we worked together, and all the times you'd helped me in school, and how…how you'd always…" his voice caught, "…been there."

Frank's hand ghosted over his arm, rubbing slowly. 

"Want to know something else you didn't know?" he asked softly. 

Joe nodded without looking at his brother.

"My essay for Princeton? I wrote about _you_." 

The younger Hardy looked at his brother quickly, then smiled. 

"We were one hell of a team," he said softly. 

The vision of Frank blurred; at first Joe thought he was fading and reached for him, then he realized his eyes were filled with tears.

The elder Hardy squeezed his brother's hands in his own cold transparent ones. 

"We still are."


	22. Mother

_Stupid, stupid boy going back to school, leaving his parents worrying, his friends calling here every day in a frenzy. Frank would not want this. Frank would not let this happen…_

Gertrude stood over a pot on the stove, stirring furiously, trying unsuccessfully to ward off the image of her nephews, to push down the faces that rose before her day after day, hour after hour.  __

She sighed and turned the heat on the stove down; the broth was beginning to boil. But the smell of the stew failed to ease the fear lodged in her chest; fear for her younger nephew's safety. 

_I'm not going to do it again. Not now. _

"Joseph," she sighed out loud, "will you _ever _learn?"

A bubble of broth popped in response, and the older woman sighed again. 

"Always so out of control," she muttered to herself, stirring furiously again. "If they were _my _children…"

_What? _she thought to herself, forcing her voice to stop. She'd wondered so many times what she would have done differently, so many times how she would have eased the drive to detect, squelched their curiosity. 

And yet…

_It's in their blood, Gert. My parents warned me when I married Fenton that our children would be the same. And they were right. It's just in their blood. _

How could she have stopped them without killing the very personalities she'd come to look after with such care, love so completely? They would have found ways around her. After all, the only thing they really wanted was to help others. 

"Still," she muttered, stirring again, "I never would have let them. I would never had involved them in a case like that. I…"

"Gertrude?"

"Oh!" the older woman dropped her spoon to the floor and spun around to face Laura. The woman huddled in the doorway, looking shrunken—she hadn't been eating enough, Gertrude reminded her several times a day—in her loose sweater, drawn tightly against her arms. 

"You were talking to yourself."

"Was I?" she sighed, scooping the spoon back up and running under hot water. "Maybe."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine, dear. Sit down. I'll give you something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Laura! You're getting to be as bad as Joseph!"

Laura's lip began to tremble at the mention of her younger son's name; that's when Gertrude noticed how red her eyes were, swollen from crying. 

"Laura! What on earth is wrong dear?"

Mrs. Hardy sighed and crossed the kitchen slowly, lowering herself into a seat at the kitchen table. 

"Fenton still hasn't heard from Joe."

Gertrude sighed, turned the heat to off, and sat slowly down beside her sister-in-law. 

"That doesn't mean he isn't all right. He's a strong boy. Stubborn, bull-headed, frustrating…but strong."

Laura wiped her eyes tiredly. "He used to be," she said softly. "But that's because he…he always had Frank…backing him…" her face crumpled, and again after so many nights, she buried her face in her arms and wept. "Oh God…my babies…how did this happen to my babies…one dead and the other dying…I can't do this anymore…"

"_Laura!_" Gertrude snapped, seizing the younger woman's shoulders. "Stop, right now! You are a wonderful wife, mother, and _woman_, and neither me nor Fenton nor Joe nor _Frank _would want you to give up. You still have one son living, and you absolutely need to be together for him, because he can't do this on his own, whether he knows it or not."

Mrs. Hardy's sobs slowed and she wiped her eyes, sniffing. "I just miss my children…"

"I know, dear."

Laura sighed and turned to the stove, managing a weak smile. 

"Your stew smells good," she whispered. Gertrude smiled back. K

"It's about time you ate again." 

Laura nodded, a look of determination coming over her. 

"Where's Joe's phone number?" she asked. 

Gertrude raised an eyebrow. "I think Fenton has it."

Laura rose slowly, deliberately. "I'm going to call him," she said slowly. 

"It's time I started being his mother."

Gertrude nodded; she'd thought so all along.


	23. Eyes

A/N: sorry for the delay in updates! I'm back on schedule now!

Vanessa Bender sighed as she struggled to get an earring through her almost-closed hole. Frustrated, she hurled the tiny ball down on her desk and watched it bounce onto the carpet with a tiny _plink_. 

_Why'd I ever agree to being set up? Damnit Callie, you can always talk me into **anything**!_

"No way I'm going to let you cancel," her best friend said when she'd phoned her this afternoon to say that she was having second thoughts. "So don't even think it. This isn't any big deal. The guy's new in town, and it's about time you left your house."

Vanessa agreed, but she wished with all her heart that it was Joe coming to pick her up, Joe who would rescue her from her isolation. They could rescue each other. After all, hadn't they promised that's what they'd do for him? Had everyone else forgotten? She hadn't. 

"Van, honey? Your date's here!" her mother's voice drifted up from the downstairs. 

"Damnit!" Vanessa cried, throwing herself to the floor and looking under her bed for her shoes. "Be right there Mom!" she called back, reaching for her black flats. 

She stuck her stockinged foot into her shoe with one hand and rubbed eye shadow above her lids with her other, all while hopping on one foot to keep her balance. 

_Joe always kidded you about being late. He even showed up ten minutes late on purpose, knowing you wouldn't be ready. _

"Stop thinking about him, Bender," she said allowed. "He's—OW!" her bouncing foot had landed directly on the fallen earring. Vanessa growled, stuck her foot in her other shoe, and bent to throw the ball in the trash. 

Then something caught her eye, down on a corner of the darkened lawn below; a flash of gold, a flash she could have imagined, a flash that seemed all too familiar. 

Vanessa flung herself out the door and down the stairs, racing right past the nervous looking boy at the bottom. 

"Hi…" he started. She flashed him a quick grin and darted past him toward the kitchen.

"Vanessa, honey, what on earth…" her mother called as she flew by her and flung the back door open. 

The lawn was black and empty. 

Panting, Vanessa slumped against the door frame. What was wrong with her? She'd never been one to be this obsessed. Was it guilty? Depression? Or something more?

"Um…excuse me…are you all right?"

She turned to see her date looking at her anxiously. She sized him up; nice boy, a bit preppy, a little shy. He'd make for a nice, normal evening. 

"Fine," she sighed. "I'm sorry. I thought…I thought I'd left something outside."

"Oh."

_Great start Bender, he already thinks you're crazy. _

"Let's just go," she said, grabbing her coat and calling good-bye to her mother. 

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked her as the two stepped outside. 

"I'm fine. I thought—" the word died in her throat as the flash of gold appeared again; this time, connected to a face, and to two beautiful but pained blue eyes that locked and held her own. She saw their tears; she saw their betrayal. 

"Joe!" she cried, leaping forward.

But in another flash, the eyes were gone. 


	24. The Van

_"What's wrong with the van?" Joe asked, squinting at the scratches he'd noticed covering the black paint. _

_"What?" Frank came around from the driver's side._

_"Look at this stuff on the sides. These scratches. What'd you do, drive through a gravel pit?"_

_The blood drained from Frank's face. He stepped forward and brushed his fingers over the tiny cuts working all around the van in a perfect ring._

_"Frank?" Joe as suddenly unnerved by his brother's pale face and trembling fingers._

_"Joe, go inside," Frank whispered. _

_"What? Why?"_

_"Just do it."_

_"Frank, what's going on?"_

_The older Hardy scanned the street, then turned back to his brother. _

_"Don't drive the van anymore."_

_"Tell me what's going on!" Joe snapped, frustrated by Frank's evasion. _

_"Just trust me," Frank turned and stared straight into his brother's eyes. "Trust me."_

_"Trust what?"_

_The older Hardy turned away and stared back at the street, his eyes distant. _

_"Frank?"_

_"I think…" the older Hardy swallowed hard, "…I think I messed up, Joe."_

_"You messed up? How?"_

_"Never mind that…"_

_"Damnit Frank, what's wrong?"_

_"I messed up! Bad! Go inside!"_

_"Frank…"_

_"**Now!**" _

_Joe slammed his fist into the van and stormed away, furious at his brother's evasion, worried by how stubborn he was being. _

_Frank watched Joe storm off, then turned back to the chipped paint. He reached out, hand trembling, and traced the letters his brother hadn't seen. _

_"Soon," he whispered, reading the message aloud, knowing with deepening fear that somewhere out in the night the man awaited._

_A/N: Sorry it's short…things have been a bit rough lately…when school let's out it'll be easier to update. _


	25. Angel

A/N: Hello dear readers, and thanks for the reviews. Yes, I will be continuing Thinner, but I have a very hard time juggling two stories, so I'm hoping to knock this one out of the way first. Thanks for your patience. Also: this is my first song-fic EVER, so if you experts want to give me advice, feel free. Thanks. 

Spend all your time waiting  
for that second chance…

Joe shut the door behind him, tears stinging his eyes. He'd seen her; Vanessa. His Vanessa. Or she had been once. 

_  
…for a break that would make it okay_

What had he been thinking, wondering if she'd wait for him? 

_Why do I always screw up the most important relationships in my life?_

_  
there's always one reason  
to feel not good enough_

_Screw up_, he thought, thinking of Frank and Iola. He shivered; haunted. Literally and figuratively. 

_Oh shutup Hardy, you should consider yourself lucky to at least have your brother's ghost around…_

Joe's eyes filled with tears.

  
…and it's hard at the end of the day  
I need some distraction…

            "Frank?" he half-sobbed to his filthy, dark, and above all empty dorm room, "if ever I needed you it's now. Frank? I…I'm not okay. I want…" he slowly raised the arm of his shirtsleeve, tracing the name, "…to hurt myself." 

  
…oh beautiful release…

            Joe never heard or saw his brother appear, but light, nearly invisible arms suddenly surrounded him, and he welcomed the embrace by gripping the almost-hands with all his strength. 

  
…memory seeps from my veins  
let me be empty  
and weightless and maybe  
I'll find some peace tonight…

            "Help me," he sobbed, the tears breaking through despite his desperate attempts to shove them back down. "I can't do this, Frank, I want to go with you, let me go with you…"

  
  
…in the arms of an angel  
fly away from here…

            Frank still didn't speak, but gently guided his trembling brother to his unmade bed and sat beside him.

  
…from this dark cold hotel room  
and the endlessness that you fear…

            "She was with someone else," Joe sobbed, rocking back and forth. "How stupid was I to leave her? She tried to…she wanted to be there for me…but I pushed her away…I pushed everyone away…"

            He closed his eyes, leaning his head back, away from the dirt and dust collected at his feet. 

            "Oh God, Frank…I'm so alone…"

  
…you are pulled from the wreckage  
of your silent reverie…

            Frank moved so he was behind his brother and pulled him into his arms, resting Joe's head on his shoulder, his back on Frank's chest, silently offering support, wordlessly urging him on.

…you're in the arms of the angel  
may you find some comfort there…

            "What have I done? To Mom, to Dad, to everybody? Where did they go? Where did I go? Where have I been all this time?" Joe sobbed, pleading, looking for answers more from himself than from his brother. 

  
…so tired of the straight line  
and everywhere you turn  
there's vultures and thieves at your back…

            "No matter what happens, whether it be with you or Iola or Vanessa or Mom or Dad, all I ever do is screw the people I care about over, you know that?" the younger Hardy whimpered. "And they all just walk away," his voice caught, and more tears spilled, cascading down his face, dripping off his cheeks to the dirty sheets beneath him, right through his dead brother's arms. 

            "They all just walk away…"

  
…and the storm keeps on twisting  
you keep on building the lie  
that you make up for all that you lack…

            "I convinced myself I didn't need them. That I was better off alone. But I'm not, Frank. I'm really not. If anything it makes it all worse." 

  
…it don't make no difference  
escaping one last time  
it's easier to believe in this sweet madness oh…

"I mean, everything I've done—the drinking, the smoking, the racing, it all works for a minute, but then it's gone and I'm still alone and still miserable and wondering why I keep losing everyone…"

…this glorious sadness that brings me to my knees…

            "…you were the only one who stayed. No matter what. No matter how stupid I was or how hard I pushed at you, you never, ever left me. Even when we fought, I knew you'd be there. And then…you weren't anymore…"

Joe could no longer speak. The tears had risen and swallowed his throat.

  
…in the arms of an angel  
fly away from here…

            Frank rocked his brother slowly, his grip never faltering, feeling the agony that tore through the once athletic body, now taken by the sickness of the boy's mind. He felt how fragile his brother was; physically and emotionally; one step too far, and he'd easily break, how close he was to the same border he'd crossed the night he tried to take his life. 

  
…from this dark cold hotel room  
and the endlessness that you fear…

            "I'm here," Frank whispered into his brother's ear, knowing these were the only two words that would at least ease the hurt if not erase it. "I'm here. I never left. I'll never leave you."

  
…you are pulled from the wreckage  
of your silent reverie…

            "You have so much more love than you realize," the elder Hardy went on. "Mom, Dad, Aunt Gertrude…they're not gone, Joe. They're just waiting. They're waiting for you to realize that they love you, waiting for you to ask for help. Because they can't help you until you want it. They tried; think of Mom and Dad at the hospital, and Aunt Gertrude before you left. Think of all the messages Phil and Callie and Vanessa—yes, Vanessa—left you, all the times you ignored them. You haven't lost them, Joe. It's you who was lost."

  
…you're in the arms of the angel  
may you find some comfort there…

            "And you don't need to hurt yourself," he continued, his voice growing softer, sadder. "Trust me. You always trusted me. It doesn't solve anything. It doesn't help you, or anyone. I know how you feel. I do. I know how the hurt overwhelms you and you have to direct it at something, only there's no bad guys to fight, no one to chase or catch or spy on. There's only you, and so you feel the need to punish yourself. But you know what that does? It hurts me Joe. It hurts everyone around you. And I know you, little brother. You'd never want to hurt anyone."

  
…you're in the arms of the angel…

            "Frank," Joe sobbed, turning on his side to bury deeper into his brother's embrace. "I'm scared. I'm so scared."

            Frank's hand brushed over his brother's sweat-soaked forehead, cooling, soothing.

            Saving.

  
…may you find…

            "Lie down," the older Hardy murmured. Joe slowly, hesitantly obeyed, reluctant to break the embrace, not wanting Frank to slip away as he so often did. But the older Hardy had no intention of leaving his brother that night.

"Remember when you were little? Remember the nightmares you had?" Frank asked softly.

            Joe nodded weakly, fighting the pain that came with the memory. 

            "Remember what I said?"

…some comfort…

            "The monsters have to get through me first," he murmured, gently stroking Joe's forehead, just as he'd done when they were children, when a small Joe had stared with wide, innocent eyes at a world that just seemed too large and scary.

            Frank lay his almost-body down beside his brother's easing an arm over Joe's trembling shoulders, feeling the unfamiliar bones, warming the starved and tormented body as if willing the mind to accept the support offered. 

            "And I'm not leaving you," he whispered as Joe slipped away from the cold, harsh silence of the world. 

_…here._


	26. Parents

"Maybe he's not there," Fenton said as Laura pushed redial for the third time. 

"I'm going to keep right on trying until he is then," she almost snapped back. The detective sighed and looked at his hands, wishing his wife would calm down.

_Or I'd wake up and start worrying. If only I didn't feel so **numb**_…

He knew what it was; a defense mechanism, his brain's way of blocking out the pain of his loss. _Losses_. Plural. 

"Laura, why don't you wait an hour…"

"Hello? Yes? Joe honey, is that you?"

Fenton quickly picked up his own phone to listen in.

"…me Mom."

"How are you sweetheart? Were you sleeping?"

"Yeah…damn, what time is it?"

"After six."

"Shit."

"Do you have a class."

"Had. It's over now."

"Joe!"

"I'm sorry. I had a rough night last night. I was up late."

"Did you go out?"

A pause. "Sort of."

"Really? See anyone?"

"No. Look, I've got to go…"

"Don't cut us off," Fenton jumped in. Laura looked at him sharply, but he avoided her eyes. "Joe. We're worried."

"Oh _that's _different…"

"Have you been skipping classes?"

"No. Not on purpose, anyway."

"How about we stop by this weekend?"

"No, I don't think so. I'll be busy."

"Honey," Laura tried, "it would make us feel better…"

"I'm…" Joe suddenly cut off and mumbled as if someone else was in the room. Fenton and Laura exchanged a puzzled glance, then Joe came back on.

"I'll think about it. I've got to go now."

"Will you call us later?"

"Sure…"

"Why don't we call you," Fenton jumped in, knowing full well his son would never return the call.

"Even better."

"Take care of yourself, honey…" Laura murmured, blinking tears back.

"I will. Am. I am, Mom."

"All right. Love you."

"Sure. Bye."

"Good…"

But the phone was dead. 

Laura stared at her husband, her eyes filling as she slowly pulled the phone away from her ear and clicked it off. 

"Did we fail as parents?" she asked him. 

Fenton couldn't answer.


	27. Afraid

A/N: I'M SO SORRY I'VE BEEN GONE! I'M BACK NOW! I'LL FINISH! Also: someone from a college with an e-mail that began with "R" sent me an e-mail, but I was unable to reply to it. Whoever you are, please e-mail me again!

Joe sighed and hung up the phone, suddenly aware of the scent of cigarette smoke from the windowsill.

"You haven't eaten today."

The younger Hardy spun around; Frank had surprised him, as usual. This time he was perched on the window ledge, half shadowed by the now dark room, half illuminated from the lights lined along the brick path several stories below.

"What were you thinking, disappearing while I was on the phone like that? One minute you're there…the next, not."

"I saw you about to talk to me, so I had to go."

"I needed to ask you about Mom and Dad."

Frank inhaled from a cigarette that seemed to materialize in his hands, turning the tip bright red, violent in the dark.

_Blood red…_

"No you didn't. You're having problems making decisions because you're so depressed, not because you need me for everything. And you can't go around talking to me; people will think you're crazy."

"I _am _crazy."

"No you're not, you're just guilt-tripping yourself."

"Then why am I talking to you?"

"You think I'm not real?"

Joe swallowed and sat slowly down on his dorm bed.

"I don't know," he sighed.

Frank raised his eyebrows. "Is it so hard to believe that I'd hang around to keep an eye on you? Why would I let you ruin your life over something as stupid as your big brother?"

The older Hardy ground out his cigarette in the nearly full ashtray.

"Since when do you smoke?" Joe asked.

"Since I don't have to worry about lung cancer, or emphysema, or blood pressure or heart disease and you do."

"You smoked all _my _cigarettes?"

"You shouldn't be smoking. Or drinking. You should be eating and studying and socializing."

Joe just swallowed and looked away. Frank hopped off the windowsill without a sound and crossed the room. 

"Come with me."

"What? Where? I don't want to go out now, it's late!"

"You should have thought of that before you started starving yourself. We're going to eat."

"I don't want to."

"I know. But you're hungry."

Joe didn't answer.

"Get up. Come with me."

Joe rose slowly, as if entranced by his brother's orders.

"Get your coat."

"I want to be cold."

"You will be. Inside. Until you eat and talk again. You shouldn't hurt yourself by being cold on the outside too."

"I should be…" Joe didn't know how to put it into words, the fierce desire he had to punish himself, to inflict the cold of the grave his brother dwelled in on his own living body.

"No, you shouldn't. Look at yourself. Look at how thin you are. Look at how much you shiver."

Joe stared at his shoes There was a hole in the toe; he could see his bare feet. He'd stopped wearing shoes."

"Put my coat on."

Joe looked up sharply. "What?"

Frank pointed to the full size black coat Joe had brought from home but never touched. "My coat. Put it on. It'll keep you warm."

"That's pretty morbid, Frank."

"How so? You always hid behind me. Now you can't. So hide behind my things. It'll keep you warm. It'll make you feel less afraid." He met his brother's frown the a gaze so sympathetic Joe wanted to bawl. "I know you're afraid," Frank murmured. 

Slowly, the younger Hardy moved toward the jacket, running his fingers over the rough material before taking it off the hook. The coat had never fit him right before; he'd been husker than Frank, with broader shoulders and thicker arms, but those days were long gone, and the fabric fell loosely around him, away from his body. Joe felt like there was a cage around him, protecting his straight, pale body. He buttoned it slowly, his shivering stopping for the first time in weeks. 

Frank smiled, then reached out and took his hand. 

"Come with me. You don't have to be afraid."

Starting into those brown eyes, so much darker and wiser than his own, wrapped in the warming fabric holding his own heat against him, Joe almost believed.


	28. The Conversation

_Joe couldn't sleep. He tossed from one side to the other, kicked off the blankets, decided he was cold, pulled them up, decided he was hot, kicked them off again. The conversation was echoing in his mind._

_"I think we'd better stay off this one," Frank had announced. Joe had been so startled he'd dropped the file he was holding. _

_"What did you say?" the younger Hardy had demanded. _

_"You heard me. I can't explain why…I'm not sure, really. Instinct. I just have this feeling that we're in over our heads."_

_"Dad said he needed our help."_

_Frank had stared at him, his eyes clouded, almost as if he knew…_

_"I can't explain it Joe," he said softly. "I'm going to have to ask you to trust me. Please? There's something about this that doesn't seem right._

_Joe swallowed. "Does this have to do with the van?"_

_Frank looked away. "Sort of. I just want to pull off."_

_"Just like that? We leave Dad?"_

_"Yeah. For now."_

Coward,_ Joe had thought, although he wouldn't dare say the word—_haunts him now, he hears it in his sleep, wakes up to it when the nightmares don't should have known better Frank was no coward he should have just trusted why oh why didn't he just trust…

_But he hadn't known then, as he lay awake in the dark, his brother's words echoing strangely in his mind. What could frighten Frank so much to want to pull off? If it was the marks on the van, then what did they mean? What if—_

_SMASH! _

_The window in Joe's room shattered onto the carpet. Joe leapt out of bed, startled. A brick, painted black with a red skull, lay on the carpet. Joe stared at it, shuddering; stupid punk kids!_

_"Joe!" Frank burst through the bathroom door into his brother's room. "Are you all right?" he demanded. "What happened?"_

_"I don't know." Joe gestured to the brick on the floor. "That thing found its way to my window."_

_Frank turned and instantly paled; he moved toward it, glanced out the shattered window, and swallowed hard. "Joe…go into my room.'_

_'Frank, what…"_

_"Just do it! Stop questioning every single thing I tell you!"_

_"You're not **telling** me anything!" _

_"You don't need to know. Get out."_

_"Damn it, Frank, talk to me! What are you so afraid of all of a sudden? I've never known you to be a coward. But that'll all you are now! You're backing out of a case and running around like a frightened girl! What is **wrong**?"_

_Frank glared furiously at his brother, his anger apparent although silent. _

_"Don't ever call me a coward. I'm doing what I think is right."_

_"How is it right?"_

_Frank shut his eyes and clenched his jaw. "I can't stand you sometimes, you know that? Why can't you just **trust** me? Why do you have to be so damn stubborn?"_

_"Just tell me what's going on!" Joe shouted, feeling fury rise from chest. Frank just shook his head and stormed into his room. "Get yourself killed," he growled, "I don't care."_

_Joe jumped as the door slammed._


	29. Eating

Frank pulled Joe across the concrete paths, winding him past lecture halls and laborites, staying partly shadowed the whole time. Joe wondered again if this was real or if this Frank-like shadow was nothing more than a perfectly packaged product of his chemically imbalanced mind. 

The night was cold, and patches of snow and ice still clumped together besides parts of the path, feeding on each other's cold, keeping each other alive. Joe glanced up; the sky was clear, but he couldn't see any stars. Frank's hand tugged at his own, refusing to let him slow down, as if sensing that his brother wanted to turn back. 

The brothers stopped outside the main cafeteria doors. Joe didn't want to go in; rather than being warm and inviting the light seemed cold, brutal, revealing. Unforgiving. The younger Hardy wanted to stay in the shadows, stay hidden.

"Don't talk to me when we're inside," Frank interrupted his thoughts. "Don't look at me either, or nod."

"I want to go back," Joe announced. 

The elder Hardy turned and stared at him, his face the saddest Joe had seen it since his brother had appeared. But he stayed firm.

"Not until you eat."

"I don't want to go in there. They'll look at me."

"Who? There's hardly anyone around at this time of night. And I'm with you. They can't even see your body in my jacket. Don't worry. I won't disappear." 

Frank let go of his brother's hand and stepped neatly through the door, leaving Joe to open it himself. After a moment's hesitation he did, not wanting to cross campus in the suddenly looming dark alone.

He squinted, adjusting his eyes to the fluorescent lights that bared down on him. Frank was surveying the cafeteria; a group of students were studying in a corner, a professor was pouring over notes and sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, a girl and a boy were holding hands and feeding each other cake, and a group of Goths were passing sheet music back and forth while one aimlessly strummed a guitar. 

Joe froze in the doorway, hunching inside Frank's jacket, but his brother was suddenly behind him, blocking his escape. 

"They're not looking at you," Frank murmured. "They're all eating and working. They don't care that you're here."

"I…"

"_Don't talk to me_." 

Joe bit his lip, but no one had even noticed him come in. 

"Go on," the elder Hardy said gently, urging him forward. "I'll walk in front. You follow me."

The two wound their way through the tangled mess of angled tables and chairs pushed away and abandoned, stopped over napkins and bits of food left on the floor. Joe kept glancing about the room, but no one paid any attention, and he felt the tension in his shoulders relent a little.

_I'm like a ghost too_, he thought as his brother stepped in to the vacant food line.

"Get a tray," Frank commanded. "And a spoon and knife and fork."

Joe did as he was told and slid his tray along the metal rail set up in front of the cafeteria line. There wasn't much set out this late at night—the dinner crowd was long gone—but Frank was taking it all in; the sandwiches, salads, cake slices, rolls, coffee and soft drinks.

"Need help hon?"

Joe nearly jumped and almost dropped his tray, but his brother steadied them both. 

"Ask for some soup," Frank said softly. "Tomato. And get a roll."

He obeyed again, struggling to keep his mind on each task his brother gave him rather than worrying about what everyone thought.

"I'll check you out down here," the gray-haired woman smiled as she handed him a large Styrofoam bowl. Joe took it, the warmth seeping into his palms, the tomato scent rising to his nostrils and mouth. 

"Your swipe card's in the right pocket," Frank told him as Joe pushed the tray down to the register. "I knew you'd forget it."

He paid and thanked the woman, then glanced to his brother, who was already moving across the maze to a table for four in the far corner beside the last window. Joe could see the football field, lit by the path lights, and a security guard's van moving slowly along. He set his tray down and settled in the seat in front of it, shrinking deeper in to his brother's coat. Frank sat beside him in a chair that had been left pushed back.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked with a smile. 

Joe shook his head ever so slightly, afraid to make a big gesture. He surveyed the cafeteria, but no one noticed him.

"Good. Go ahead."

But the younger Hardy just stared at the bowl of red liquid in front of him, then turned away to look outside.

Frank was unfazed. "Why don't you want to eat?"

His brother shrugged ever so slightly.

"You're hungry, I know you are. You said you'd eat and you never did. You haven't had anything but vodka and cigarettes for ages."

Joe felt his eyes stinging and the lights blur at the edges of his vision. He fought to swallow the pain in his throat; he didn't want to eat, although his stomach hurt, although the soup smell was intoxicating, although he'd been feeling dizzy and light-headed and his stomach growled furious protests all through the day.

"You're punishing yourself," Frank murmured, "Because you feel guilty about me. About Iola. About everything. But think, Joe; would I still be here if you didn't deserve forgiveness, or happiness, or strength? I never made it a habit to help bastards who didn't deserve it, and I'm not about to start new ones just because I'm dead. I would have been dead whether you'd gotten to me or not, buddy. At least by you reaching me I got to say goodbye."

Joe clenched his hands into fists to stop their shaking. He wanted to put his head down and cry, coat the tray in tears, curl his stick-like body up in his brother's jacket and die there, under the cold glaring lights, with his brother beside him. It seemed easier than going back out into the dark that nearly swallowed him whole or staying under the merciless lights. He didn't know what would make him happy; he was trapped, hating both night and day. 

And then Frank's hand covered his own.

"I always told you never to give up," he murmured. "Put yourself in my shoes; what if it was me killing myself—because you are killing yourself Joe—if _I _was starving and smoking and drinking and it was all _your _fault, how would _you _feel?"

The younger Hardy shut his eyes, wiping impatiently at the tears; when he opened them, the food stared back.

"You should eat," Frank murmured, squeezing Joe's hand. "We'll do it together. Pick up your spoon."

Joe moved his trembling free hand to the silverware on his tray, then slowly dipped it into the bowl. He stirred the soup for a moment, then slowly sank it beneath the surface, bringing it up again full of basil and broth, splashing a bit back in as his hand shook.

"Don't be afraid," Frank soothed. "Try some."

The younger Hardy raised the spoon to his lips and slowly took the broth, the spice and heat burning his throat, the warmth slowly oozing all the way down where he felt it burn into his tight, desperate stomach that gratefully accepted it.

Frank smiled. "Go on. Slowly; if you eat too fast you'll be sick. Take your time. Let it settle."

Joe obeyed, gradually working his way through the bowl, the sickness relenting with each spoonful.

"Cut your roll," his brother ordered, "dip the bread in."

With that he let go of Joe's hand and sat silently, smiling almost to himself as he watched his brother eat. 


	30. Strength

"I called out for him," Vanessa sniffed, wiping her eyes with an already wet tissue. "But he disappeared. It was almost like he wasn't there, but I know it; I'd recognize his eyes anywhere."

"You may have imagined him Van," Callie said gently. "I know how hard the date was for you. Maybe you felt so guilty you thought he was there when he wasn't.

"I know what I saw Cal! The thing is…I don't know what he was doing watching my house. I tried calling him…"

"Good luck. We all have."

"I know! He never answers the phone, and he never returns his calls…" Vanessa sniffed and wiped at her eyes. "I don't know what to do. I mean…I know there's no chance…that we could ever be anything again…but still…I wish…"

"Van, don't," Callie murmured, putting an arm around her friend's shoulder. "That's not what Joe needs right now. He needs friends who won't give up on him."

"I'd never give up on him! None of us would. None of us _have_. But he's _impossible._ We can't help him if he doesn't want help."

"Then we just keep calling, and keep trying to see him, and wait until he realizes that he needs to change. And then we support him when he does." 

"But that's what we've been _trying _to do, Cal…"

Callie bit her lip and sighed. "I've been thinking, Van…maybe we ought to go see him, one at a time. I mean, just show up without warning. All of us at once may be too much, but if we split up, maybe one of us we'll have a chance."

"Phil already tried that…"

"So I'll go next. Then Tony. Then Chet. Then you…"

Vanessa sighed. "Anything's worth a shot."

Callie looked worriedly at her best friend. "Van…are you all right? I mean, not just with this Joe stuff. Are you okay otherwise?"

Vanessa swallowed, hard, but managed a weak smile. "I should ask you the same thing."

"You first."

Vanessa rubbed her eyes, trying to avoid Callie's gaze. "I think so. It's just that I can't stop thinking about him…you know what I mean, Cal."

"You're right. I do. But I've learned to move past it. To go on although it's hard."

"I wish I could too."

"You _can_. Distract yourself."

"How?"

"Go shopping." Callie rose, a bright grin on her face. "Right now. Come with me. Let's stop sitting around moping about our Hardy boys."

Vanessa shook her head, marveling at her best friend's strength. "You're something else, Cal."

"Thank you my dear."

"All right," she said after a moment. "Let's get out of here."

"Good girl. Come on. I know this great new coffee place that's open…"

Callie went on, chatting merrily, but although Vanessa smiled back, the only thought on her mind was the pair of blue eyes that had stared at her from the lawn.

And the betrayal she'd seen in them.


	31. Iola

Chet Morton shut and locked the door to his room before crossing to the closet, flicking on the light and pulling down the long neglected photo album. Taking a deep breath, he settled on his bed, then hesitantly flipped open the leather album, bracing himself for the photo he knew would stare up at him.

_Brown eyes, dark hair, perfect smile like a pixie they always called her it felt so weird to think of her as attractive she was my _sister _for God's sake…_

Iola. 

Their childhood was in that album; baby pictures, elementary school, junior high, high school. Photos of the two of them—eating ice cream, on vacation, catching fireflies, in the pool. 

With their friends.

Chet sighed again as he reached the end of the album, seeing the shots of the group of them—Phil Tony himself Callie Frank Joe Iola—knowing that the next shot would be his sister and her boyfriend.

Chet shut the album. He didn't need to see it tonight. 

_So strange when they started dating he was one of my best friends and suddenly he was going out with my _sister _but after a time it seemed _right _they were so happy together, so perfectly in tune she'd help with his cases she was the only one besides Frank who could calm him down, draw him out. Oh Iola, what do you think of us now? Now that Vanessa has taken your place, now that Joe seems to have gone off the deep end and we're all just sitting back and letting it happen? It was all a lot of talk, our determination to save him none of us have followed through._

_I know how he feels. God, I know how he feels. Iola, have  you seen Frank? Are the two of you going crazy as Joe destroys himself? Or do you blame him too?_

Chet was ashamed to admit it, but he had blamed Joe when the car bomb had taken his sister's life, had resented him for falling in love with Vanessa. Over time, he'd come to change his mind, to understand how guilt ridden Joe felt, how desperately he wanted to move on but felt he couldn't. 

_And Vanessa was so wonderful and sweet and loving, we all cared for her too. But I never forgot you, little sister. I promise. I never will. _

He took a deep breath and returned the book to the closet. Iola was beyond help. But Joe was not.

He had a friend to save. 


	32. The Agreement

_"Did you sleep?" Joe asked, a bit timidly as Frank rubbed his eyes and stirred his coffee._

_"No." He raised his eyes and offered a slight smile. "You?"_

_"Not a wink."_

_Joe sat across from his brother, watching him anxiously, feeling the discomfort hanging between them. He wanted to pretend like the night before hadn't happened, but he knew that leaving it unresolved would make for farther fighting. And he hated arguing with his brother._

_"I'm sorry," both boys said at the same time. Then they both grinned._

_"I really am, Frank," Joe pleaded._

_"I know. I am too. It's just…I need you to trust me on this. I'd tell you if I thought…" Frank looked away suddenly._

_"What?" Joe asked gently. _

_Frank shut his eyes. "I messed up, Joe. I did something stupid and…" he turned and looked his younger brother in the face, "you might pay for it."_

_Joe swallowed, remembering the brick with the death symbol crashing through his window. _

_"I need to fix that. I don't know what I'd do if you got hurt."_

_Frank looked so horribly lost and guilty, Joe knew he had to say something. He reached over and touched his brother's arm. _

_"It's okay," he said easily. "How many times have you bailed me out of something stupid? Tell me what happened. I can help…"_

_"I can't Joe."_

_Frank looked imploringly at his younger brother, pleading for understanding. "Please trust me. Please understand."_

_Joe wanted to protest, but he saw his older brother's desperation and nodded. _

_"Okay," he said softly._

_"Promise me, Joe. Tell me you'll leave this alone."_

_The younger Hardy felt a chill raise goosebumps along his arms. Frank never asked for promises. Not unless he really, really needed something._

Damn you Frank why can't you just _talk_to me!

_"Promise," he muttered. Frank sighed with relief._

_"Then we're agreed." _

_Joe nodded, but the chill didn't recede. Something was really scaring Frank. So badly that he wouldn't—or _couldn't—_fight back. Something that could get them both…_

_"Agreed," he murmured, praying that somehow their pact would save them, knowing that vows meant nothing to the man who now hunted Bayport, the man from the folder. _

_The man who would destroy them both._


	33. Brothers

"Feel better?" Frank asked as he and his brother stepped back into Joe's pitch-black dorm room. Joe nodded, suddenly drowsy as he slumped across his bed and curled in Frank's jacket.

"Aren't you going to take your coat off?"

"It's _your _coat."

"Well?"

Joe just sighed and turned on his back. 

"I feel safer in it."

Frank lit a cigarette and scrutinized his brother. 

"You don't sleep."

Joe sighed again and pulled his pillow over his face.

"Leave me alone, Frank. You just made me shove food down my throat. Be happy with that."

"Great. So you ate again. Once. Now you've got to sleep again, and talk, and study…"

"Why are you _doing _this to me!" Joe wailed, sitting up fast. "Frank, _please. _Why can't you be like you were before? Why are you forcing me into this?"

"Into what? All I'm getting you to do is everyday things you _should _be doing."

"You're pushing too hard."

"If I didn't you wouldn't _do _anything. You'd lie here and not sleep and not eat and feel sorry for yourself…"

"Feel sorry for myself!" Joe shouted, his patience suddenly gone. "Godamnit Frank, all I've thought of these past few months has been _you_. Everything bad that I've been feeling comes from _you_, but not this evil sarcastic little demon who pops up to criticizes me every two seconds…" Joe's voice caught in his throat as the tears suddenly clawed there way up from his eyes and cascaded down his face. The younger Hardy sank back across the bed, burying his face in his pillow.

_God I want to die I want this to be over this pain this loneliness this guilt and grief I want my brother's patience and courage and strength hell I want my _brother_…_

As if sensing his thoughts, Frank's gentle, airy grip rested on his shoulder. 

"You should cry," he murmured, "it'll get the hurt out better than anything else."

"I'm sorry," Joe whispered, "don't go away, don't leave me…why do I have to be so Godamned _stubborn _Frank? Why can't I have your patience?"

"You _could_. Just remember to try. That's all you need."

Joe turned his face to the wall, wiping tears on the smoke-scented pillowcase. Frank's cigarettes barely smelled, but his own had long tainted his clothes and sheets.

"I didn't deserve you," the younger Hardy muttered.

"What?"

"As a brother. I didn't deserve you as my brother."

"Why the hell would you think that?"

"You were smart, and loyal, and patient and caring and all I ever did was run around and get both of us in over our heads. Damnit Frank, why'd you hang out with me at all?"

He rolled over to face his brother, surprised by the look of shock on his face.

"Did you think that while I was alive?" Frank almost whispered.

"Sometimes."

"Where'd you get a stupid idea like that?"

"I don't know Frank, maybe because I _am _the stupid one…"

"You are _not_! You did great in school, when you concentrated, but you were the athlete…"

"You mean the dumb jock."

"_No_. You were more well rounded than me. You were very physical—"

"You mean short tempered."

"I mean passionate and emotional. You felt things deeper than I ever did. You always pointed out motives I'd never have thought of, because things were more black and white for me. You understood that things were gray."

Joe curled up again; his defensive position. Frank recognized it and laid a hand on his brother's arm.

"Joe we were a team. We were partners. We were friends. But above all that, we were brothers. We worked well because we balanced each other perfectly. I'd never have left my computer and books if it weren't for you. You never would have _looked _at them. Together, with our different approaches combined with our loyalty to one another, we were the perfect team."

He sighed then, and looked away, but the word hung between them: _were_.

"I used to think we were unbeatable," Joe said so softly Frank almost didn't hear him. "But we weren't, were we."

He turned and stared at his brother, his eyes so full of pain that Frank's confidence wavered, and for a brief moment he wondered if he really had the power to save his younger brother from the violence and depression he'd thrown himself into.

"I don't know what to do, without you, Frank. I get so scared sometimes and you're not there anymore to help me through it and I don't know what to do."

"I'm here now," the older Hardy murmured, squeezing his brother's hand. "I came back to show you how to move on. To pull you back from all that craziness. I know it may seem harsh, but that's all I'm trying to do Joe. You need to do everything you'd normally do, only without me."

"I don't want to do anything without you."

"Well, you have to." Frank too a deep breath. "I'm dead, Joe…"

"Don't say it Frank…"

"It's true, buddy. I'm dead. I can't be with you forever. I'm only here for a little while, to get you to realize that your life can and will go on without me. I know it's hard. Think how hard it is for me; you lost one person. I lost _everyone_. And deep down you know that, and you feel guilty, and so you've convinced yourself that if I can't eat or sleep or talk to anyone then you shouldn't have those luxuries either. But I'm okay, Joe. And you will be too. Hurting yourself won't bring me back, and if anything it hurts me. I feel guilty for dying, and I couldn't help that."

Joe was sobbing again. Frank leaned closer and smiled, knowing however scared and lost Joe felt his big brother's confidence would calm him down.

"You're going to be okay."

"I…"

"You're going to be okay," Frank repeated, gesturing to the covers. "Pull those up. You shouldn't be cold."

Joe slowly obeyed, burying himself beneath the blankets, still wrapped in his brother's jacket.

"Go to sleep now."

"I can't…"

"You won't dream. Don't be afraid. I'm here. And I promise tomorrow you'll feel better."

"Will you be here when I wake up?"

Frank squeezed his exhausted brother's shoulder.

"Remember," he murmured, "I'm always with you."


	34. Understanding

Callie Shaw paced Bayport University's campus anxiously, crossing from the front of the dorms to the back, gazing up at the windows, wondering which one was his, if he saw her would he come out? probably not wouldn't return phone calls wouldn't come to the phone when asked her mother had told her to stop trying but she was so worried owed it to Frank…

_Chill, Cal. Breathe, girl. Steady the thoughts. Don't show up hysterical, breathing like a racehorse, he'll think you're crazy. Deep breaths. Calm. Walk to the door, ask for his room. Climb the stairs. Numbers on the doors. Steady, easy. Exude calm and concern. You are worried about **him** not yourself and you're reaction to him._

The room almost seemed to present itself when Callie snapped back to reality in the dorm's hallway. _Easy_, she repeated, the simple word reminding her of Frank, of the calm he exuded, the hand on her arm, on her back, stroking her hair. Easy. Her boyfriend had been the picture of calm, always together, never breaking under pressure. So unlike Joe. 

So unlike Joe.

_What would you have done if it had been reversed, Frank? If you'd lost Joe? I've wished it sometimes, and hated myself so much for wishing it, but I really can't help it. I love Joe—not like you did, but I loved him all the same. But I wish it had been him. I wish to God it had been him. _

_Only…I know that would have changed you. Just as your loss has changed Joe._

She knocked quickly, holding her breath, half-wishing the door wouldn't open, half-wishing the younger Hardy wouldn't be there. But as she started to turn in a frenzy of nerves the door swung inward, revealing a pale, lean Joe so changed in appearance Callie thought she must have the wrong room.

"Hi," he said, clearly surprised.

"Oh Joe…" the rush of sympathy and horror and guilt nearly drowned Callie, and her eyes filled. He frowned, then looked at the floor, clearly uncomfortable. She could not stop staring at his emaciated frame, once much huskier and thicker than his brother's. His eyes were framed by dark circles, the skin taught on the cheekbones, bangs falling over his eyes. He hid behind them now, glancing at her through them, knowing she was staring. 

"I'm sorry," Callie said softly, reaching out to touch him. He pulled away, but wordlessly stood aside for her to enter the wreck of a dorm room. There were no signs of a roommate; she could not imagine how isolated he must feel.

"I tried to call first," she went on as the younger Hardy shut the door and crossed the room to sit cross-legged on the bed. "But you never…"

"…return my calls. I know. It's a bad habit." He looked out the window. "He used to bug me about it," he mumbled. They both knew who he meant. Their one real tie. 

_Oh Joe, you're not alone, can't you see we all miss him, we all loved him…me especially. So much. We want to be here for you. We love you too…_

But as she tried to speak the words clogged in her throat, and she helplessly wiped tears away. Joe didn't move or even seem to notice. 

"I'm worried," she finally began. "We all are, Joe. What's going on? Why won't you call anyone?"

"I've been busy," he mumbled, drawing his knees up.

"You look ready to die," she burst out. He glanced at her through the bang-veil. 

"Did you just come here to make fun of me?"

"No," she said quickly. "I came because…everyone's worried. Really worried. And I came because you shouldn't be alone right now. You've spent too much time on your own, Joe. Why not let someone help you?"

"Because I don't need help."

Callie moved cautiously forward and sat in Joe's desk chair, facing him. He refused to meet her eyes.

"Joe, you look sick. I'm sorry, but you do. You're way too thin. And Phil said when he visited you wouldn't talk to him. You won't return our calls. And…we all know about what happened with you. What you did to yourself. Please, let us help you. We all want to. You weren't the only one who loved him, Joe…"

"What do you know?" Joe snapped, suddenly furious. "All you are was the girl Frank liked. That's it. Nothing more. You were together what, a year? Two? You don't know anything about him. About loving someone that much. Just leave."

Callie's eyes filled with tears; of pain, of rage, of despair. 

"You're right," she said softly. "You're absolutely right. I'm not here to argue who had the most of Frank's love, because we both know it was you, and I'm not here to argue who knew him better, because we both know it's you. I'm here because he loved you, Joe, and he would never want you to give up on life because of him. And I'm here because, through the time I spent with Frank, I learned why he loved you and I came to love you too, as a friend. And it hurts me to think you're giving up. Because that's what you're doing."

Joe lowered his eyes, but Callie saw the wetness in them.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as she turned to go. "Don't leave. Cal…tell me you understand. Please tell me you understand. I _need_ someone to understand…"

Callie turned back, seeing the desperation in her friend's face, the agony and weakness. Wordlessly she crossed the room, sat down, and put her arms around him, feeling the tears soaking through her shirt, Joe's sudden sobs rocking her own frame.

"I understand," she murmured, her own tears falling. "I miss him too. I think about him all the time too. I loved him too."

But Callie couldn't feel what Joe felt next; the warm arms that had protected him through the night, the arms of his brother, the arms of the boy who had meant the world to them both.


	35. The Kidnapping

_Joe stretched, his eyes aching from staring at the computer screen for so long. Stupid history._

_WHAM!_

_Joe leapt from his desk as his window shade flew up out of nowhere. His heart was pounding wildly as he remembered the brick crashing through the glass._

Calm down, geeze Hardy, you're worse than Frank! 

_Joe took a deep breath and moved toward the shade to lower it._

_The window was open; Joe knew he hadn't left it that way. _

_"Fra—" he started, but the name never finished._

_The dart hit him first; it flew through the open gap straight into Joe's shoulder. He took a single step back, but not fast enough; a Molotov cocktail soared through and struck Joe straight tin the chest, exploding gasoline and fire over his body. _

_Joe screamed, but before he could even raise his arms to try and put his clothes out his body went numb, and he sank to the floor in a helpless heap, his clothes still burning. His scream cut off, and though his terror stayed strong he could no longer voice it. _

Oh my God I'm going to die I'm going to burn to death, I'm being burnt alive and I can't move I can't even scream oh help me God help me someone anyone help me!

_Joe felt tears streaming from the sides of his eyes; he hadn't cried in years, but he couldn't help it now, as the smell of burning cotton and skin reached and choked his mouth and nose and there was nothing he could do to save himself. _

_He was about to pass out when wool scratched his face and filled his mouth; someone had covered him and was furiously beating at the flames, putting him out, smothering the biting stinging pain. _

_"Joe!" Frank ripped the covers off to expose his brother's smoldering t-shirt—it had burned his sweatshirt away—and singed hair. "Are you okay? Can you move?"_

_Joe wanted to scream, or at least say his older brother's name, but he couldn't get his mouth to move. Frank reached down and caught sight of the dart embedded in his brother's shoulder and hastily pulled it loose. _

_"Oh my God…okay. Okay, stay calm, all right? I'm gonna get you an ambulance and the police—" _

No! Frank don't leave, don't leave me here something's coming I feel it I sense it Frank don't leave, don't leave!

_The lights went out. _

_Frank gasped and leapt to his feet, rushing out into the hall and fumbling for the phone. _

_"Dead," he whispered, turning back to his paralyzed brother. Joe's eyes widened in terror._

This can't be happening it's like something out of a horror movie this isn't real I've got to move so we can get out of here my God he's coming for us, the Reaper's coming, the real one and the criminal, move Joe, MOVE!

_Glass exploded downstairs, and the brothers heard the door fling open and slam into the wall. Heavy, deliberate footsteps fell along the hardwood floor approaching the stairs. _

_Joe whimpered, fighting the chemicals that had frozen his muscles. Frank slowly inched back into the room, slid to the floor and gathered his younger brother against him. _

_That's how the man that had stared up at him from the folder found them; Joe still and paralyzed in Frank's arms, feeling the warmth and strength and power of his older brother, knowing Frank would protect him to the end. _

_To the bitter, bitter end. _


	36. Graveyard

"Hey baby," Callie murmured. "I bought you flowers."

She paused, as if wishing there'd be an answer, knowing there wouldn't. 

_Why do people bring flowers to a grave? Seems pointless to me._

She'd asked him that once as they'd watched Joe make his way over the graveyard. 

She'd felt insensitive, but in reality she just wanted to get her mind off the pain. 

_Because when people want to give someone something when they feel sorry for them, you know? You're helpless, but you want to make them feel better. _

Callie hugged herself, remembering his touch.

_Let them know they're not forgotten. _

"Everyone's doing really well," she murmured, brushing dirt from the concrete, her fingertips hesitating on the letters of Frank's name. "Vanessa and I are still best friends, and the guys are having a blast at college. I am too, but I'm studying more. Chet and I have been talking a lot more now. We're…trying to help Joe." She paused and swallowed. "I guess you know about him, huh?"

She shivered suddenly and looked about her; the graveyard was barren, the sky clouded, the gate open but stationary. She could have sworn she'd felt someone near her, but shook it off as wishful thinking. 

_What do you think, he's going to resurrect all of a sudden? This isn't a movie, Shaw. _

"You're mother's having a hard time, but Vanessa's gone to visit her a few times. And your Dad started helping on some cases again. Minor ones, but still…it's a start. And your Aunt is Gertrude. She's holding up. It's just…Joe. But I guess that can be expected, huh?"

Her voice caught suddenly, and she pulled her hand away from the stone as it began to tremble. 

"The truth is…none of us know how to help him," she whispered. "You know how he can get Frank. That's just _it _baby, you knew best. And I'm so scared. I'm so scared for him, and for your family, and for all of us, because we'll carry his blood on our hands if we lose him but I don't know how to save him and…"

Tears bit her eyes, and she sank her teeth into her lip, thinking of the energy that had long faded from the younger Hardy's eyes, the non-stop drive to explore, to investigate, to play, to help. She remembered him at the funeral: eyes bloodshot, hair a mess, shoulders hopelessly slumped, not once raising his face to watch the ceremony, to look at the coffin. She remembered seeing the first scratches appear along his arm, scabbed over red, and the excuses: _I was cleaning the basement…moving furniture…playing basketball…_never did he say the truth: _I'm cutting myself. _

It had been the first time she'd failed him. Failed them both.  

"I love you," she murmured a moment later. "I'll…fix this, Frank. I promise."

She arranged the flowers at the base of the stone. 


	37. Callie's Visit

Callie Shaw paced Bayport University's campus anxiously, crossing from the front of the dorms to the back, gazing up at the windows, wondering which one was his, if he saw her would he come out? probably not wouldn't return phone calls wouldn't come to the phone when asked her mother had told her to stop trying but she was so worried owed it to Frank…

_Chill, __Cal.__ Breathe, girl. Steady the thoughts. Don't show up hysterical, breathing like a racehorse, he'll think you're crazy. Deep breaths. Calm. Walk to the door, ask for his room. Climb the stairs. Numbers on the doors. Steady, easy. Exude calm and concern. You are worried about **him** not yourself and you're reaction to him._

The room almost seemed to present itself when Callie snapped back to reality in the dorm's hallway. Easy, she repeated, the simple word reminding her of Frank, of the calm he exuded, the hand on her arm, on her back, stroking her hair. Easy. Her boyfriend had been the picture of calm, always together, never breaking under pressure. So unlike Joe. 

So unlike Joe.

_What would you have done if it had been reversed, Frank? If you'd lost Joe? I've wished it sometimes, and hated myself so much for wishing it, but I really can't help it. I love Joe—not like you did, but I loved him all the same. But I wish it had been him. I wish to God it had been him. _

_Only…I know that would have changed you. Just as your loss has changed Joe._

She knocked quickly, holding her breath, half-wishing the door wouldn't open, half-wishing the younger Hardy wouldn't be there. But as she started to turn in a frenzy of nerves the door swung inward, revealing a pale, lean Joe so changed in appearance Callie thought she must have the wrong room.

"Hi," he said, clearly surprised.

"Oh Joe…" the rush of sympathy and horror and guilt nearly drowned Callie, and her eyes filled. He frowned, then looked at the floor, clearly uncomfortable. She could not stop staring at his emaciated frame, once much huskier and thicker than his brother's. His eyes were framed by dark circles, the skin taught on the cheekbones, bangs falling over his eyes. He hid behind them now, glancing at her through them, knowing she was staring. 

"I'm sorry," Callie said softly, reaching out to touch him. He pulled away, but wordlessly stood aside for her to enter the wreck of a dorm room. There were no signs of a roommate; she could not imagine how isolated he must feel.

"I tried to call first," she went on as the younger Hardy shut the door and crossed the room to sit cross-legged on the bed. "But you never…"

"…return my calls. I know. It's a bad habit." He looked out the window. "He used to bug me about it," he mumbled. They both knew who he meant.  

_Oh Joe, you're not alone, can't you see we all miss him, we all loved him…me especially. So much. We want to be here for you. We love you too…_

But as she tried to speak the words clogged in her throat, and she helplessly wiped tears away. Joe didn't move or even seem to notice. 

"I'm worried," she finally began. "We all are, Joe. What's going on? Why won't you call anyone?"

"I've been busy," he mumbled, drawing his knees up.

"You look ready to die," she burst out. He glanced at her through the bang-veil.

"I know."

Callie drew a deep breath and moved to sit at his desk-chair. He looked away out the window again.

"Phil said he stopped by."

"He did."

"He said you're not doing well."

"I'm fine."

"Joe."

"I am."

"It's okay to not be."

The younger Hardy shrugged. 

"How did you do it?"

Joe whirled around; she'd stunned them both with her bluntness.

"How did I…"

"Did you cut yourself? Or take pills?"

His eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze to his dirty black sweatshirt. Slowly, he reached out, closed his fingers on the end of the sleeve, and gently pushed the fabric back to the elbow. 

She gasped as he held out his exposed underarm; it was not mere cuts that donned the area near his wrist.

"Oh, Joe," she whispered, tears stinging her eyes.

"I figured…I killed him, I might as well have him kill me."

"How _could _you!" she cried suddenly. "How could you think we'd be okay with that? That your parents would okay? That _Frank_ would be okay? He may be dead, but that doesn't mean he's not still watching us, he's not still looking out for and taking care of us! Can you imagine how he'd feel, seeing the blood coming out of _his name_? It's like sacrilege!"

"What do you know?" Joe snapped, suddenly furious. "All you are was the girl Frank liked. That's it. Nothing more. You were together what, a year? Two? You don't know anything about him. About loving someone that much. Just leave."

Callie's eyes filled with tears; of pain, of rage, of despair. 

"You're right," she said softly. "You're absolutely right. I'm not here to argue who had the most of Frank's love, because we both know it was you, and I'm not here to argue who knew him better, because we both know it's you. I'm here because he loved you, Joe, and he would never want you to give up on life because of him. And I'm here because, through the time I spent with Frank, I learned why he loved you and I came to love you too, as a friend. And it hurts me to think you're giving up. Because that's what you're doing."

Joe lowered his eyes, but Callie saw the wetness in them.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as she turned to go. "Don't leave. Cal…tell me you understand. Please tell me you understand. I need someone to understand…"

Callie turned back, seeing the desperation in her friend's face, the agony and weakness. Wordlessly she crossed the room, sat down, and put her arms around him, feeling the tears soaking through her shirt, Joe's sudden sobs rocking her own frame.

"I understand," she murmured, her own tears falling. "I miss him too. I think about him all the time too. I loved him too."

But Callie couldn't feel what Joe felt next; the warm arms that had protected him through the night, the arms of his brother, the arms of the boy who had meant the world to them both.


	38. Feeling

Joe lay on his bed with tears flowing long after his brother's once-girlfriend had left. The soup from before had opened his stomach. He felt hunger now: painful, dizzying hunger. He could feel all his bones, stretched thin over pale skin. He knew what Callie had said had been true—

_It's **you **who was lost_

—and now he was at a loss as to what to do about it. 

"Frank?" he whispered, knowing his brother wouldn't materialize until he was ready to. 

"I've been thinking a lot. I know that you tell me not to, but I am anyway. And I understand now…how bad I made you feel. And I'm sorry," the younger Hardy's light tears turned quickly to sobs. "I'm sorry, Frank. I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry to _everyone_."

Silence, still. Joe curled up and pulled the covers over his body, shutting his eyes tightly to block the sunlight that filtered unwillingly through his window. Sleep wouldn't come, but memories did: he felt the warmth of his brother's body against his own, the struggle to breathe through filtered darkness, the paralysis that held his body immobile. 

_I know how to handle him._

Oh God, Frank…

_Just stay calm._

Why?


	39. The Seperation

_Joe still couldn't move, but now he couldn't see, hear, or breathe either._

_The brothers were sprawled in the back of the van, their hands and ankles bound tightly together, black cloth bags bound around their necks, making it difficult to squeeze air down their throats. _

_"Bring him," the man known as the Reaper had said, cocking back his gun. "Or I'll shoot him through." _

_Frank had carried Joe outside to the waiting navy mini-van, saying nothing except a quick whisper of reassurance. _

_"It'll be all right," he murmured to his still paralyzed younger brother, "I know how to handle him. Just stay calm."_

Stay calm stay calm stay calm_ Joe chanted in his mind as he tested his legs and arms, fingers and toes and found nothing. _

_Frank! I know you're here but where? Where are we going? Is this our last night together? Or will we face eternity side-by-side? That only seems fair…we've done everything else as a team…_

_Joe struggled to move again, and still finding no strength whimpered involuntarily. _

_Then someone pressed against him, easing to his side, warming his shivering body. _

Frank_._

_His brother was beside him, telling him without words that he was there._

_They stayed that way, their bodies together as the car wound its way over a bumpy back road and drew to a stop. A moment later Joe's hair was seized, but as he was pulled from the truck his last sense—smell—finally came through for him._

We're by the bay—we have to be. I smell the salt. But where are we down here? _Why _are we here?

_Moments later he was hurled to a cold stone floor and left. He tested his muscles; still, they refused to yield. _

Frank where are you Dad please find us Mom we're in so much trouble Vanessa I love you Aunt Gertrude please someone anyone help it wasn't supposed to be this way we stayed out of it so it wouldn't be this way…

_He heard the pounding of footsteps, and then Frank was beside him again, and the blindfolds and gags were removed. They were in a basement—white stucco surrounded them from all sides, and a series of lights hung from wires on the ceiling. _

_"Wait," the man said softly. "Make no sound, although no one will hear you."_

_He crossed the room and opened a door Joe could only hear, than disappeared. _

_"Can you move?" Frank whispered._

_Joe simply stared at him, fighting tears of frustration and growing horror. He remembered the pictures of the victims—gore and blood and terror. And he remembered the pain. _

Help us. God help us.

_"Don't worry," the elder Hardy murmured. "I can handle him. I **will**_ _handle him. Joe, as soon as you can move again, run. No matter what's happening to me. Go for help. Do **not**_ _come after me, no matter what you hear. Understand?"_

What? Leave him? I would never—

_"All right," the voice called. Calm, soothing, relaxed. It sent chills down the younger Hardy's frozen muscles. The Reaper came back into Joe's line of vision, bearing a knife resembling a scythe; his signature weapon, true to his name. "Who wants to go first?"_

_"Look," Frank said quickly, his voice higher and more nervous than Joe had ever heard before, "I don't know who you are, or what's going on. My brother and father investigate often, but I don't have anything to do with it. So if this has something to do with a case, you should just leave me out of it. Please—I don't know anything."_

_If the younger Hardy could have, he would have gasped. This was not Frank—the strong, unbeatable, unshakeable brother Joe had known and admired his whole life. This was someone small, young, afraid…_

_Or was it?_

I know how to handle him. 

Frank, what are you doing?

_The Reaper smiled; a gentle, easy smile. _

_"Well," he said softly, moving toward the elder Hardy, "Let's take a walk then." _


	40. Secrets

"Did you ever show yourself to Callie?" 

Frank glanced up at his brother from the ground. Joe was seated in one of the branches of the oak above him. He'd been there when Joe woke up, meandered around the campus in silence, and finally stopped to look out over the river running alongside the campus to watch the crew team practice. 

"No."

"Why not?"

Frank looked away, for once his firm, confident exterior disintegrating. "It's best that we ended. It would have sooner or later anyway."

"I thought you were in love with her."

"I _am _in love with her. And I'd planned on breaking up with her right after our last case ended. Only I didn't get the chance."

"What? Why? You would have thrown all that away?"

"I _had _to, Joe."

"You're not making sense."

Frank sighed and turned to look his brother in the eyes. "I never told you why I wanted to pull off that case, did I?"

Joe shook his head wordlessly. 

"All right. I'll tell you now." Frank sat up straighter, as if bracing himself for something. "I went and saw Elise Davids, that woman the Reaper had originally been after."

"What? You told me--"

"...never to see her. That's right. But I went on a hunch one day. And you know what she told me?"

"Obviously not."

"She told me that she herself was never in danger. It had been her family all along. He killed her husband, Joe. And her children. And he'd been going after her parents when Dad finally caught up with him."

"I don't understand what that has to do with you and Callie."

"Hold on. I'm explaining." He turned away again. "It just...got me thinking. About my life..._our _lives. Being a detective and how many times she'd been put in danger because of me. I thought about you and Iola--" he glanced at his brother, who winced at the name, "--and how many times we've scared Mom by disappearing or getting knocked unconscious or getting ourselves in over our heads. Dad too. And...I didn't want that life for her." 

"I understand, but..."

"There's more, Joe. I realized what a target _everyone _in my life was. This man understood that. He never hurt his victims, so to speak. He killed everyone around them and left them in more pain than he could ever have given them physically. And I was afraid for my family."

"Why?"

Frank turned and looked Joe in the eye again. "Because he saw me coming out of Elise Davids house."

Joe went white. "Those marks on the van..."

"He knew I knew, Joe. And I knew that he wouldn't come after me. _You _were in danger. That's why I wanted you to pull off the case. That's why I _made _you pull off the case. And that's why--"

"...that night he caught us, you played dumb. You acted like it was _my _investigation and you didn't know anything--"

"So he'd kill me."

Joe began to tremble as wave upon wave of guilt crashed down on him. "Frank, what made you think I'd want to live with that?"

Frank laid his ghost hands over his brother's trembling ones. "How could _I _have lived knowing I knew how to get him away from you and didn't use it? I wasn't afraid to die. I was afraid of the people I loved dying. "

"God Frank, so was I! And my worst fears came true!"

"I know. And I'm sorry for that. But it had to be one of us, and it couldn't have been you because you had the innocence I didn't. If you had known what I did you would have stopped him. But I never told you."

"You _should _have! God Frank, I could have saved you!"

"But then I would have lost you."

"So? You could survive without me, Frank. I'm the one who can't handle living without you."

"What makes you think I would be any better?"

"You would have looked at it logically. You would have understood; okay, Joe's dead. I'm not. Time to move on."

Frank frowned. "You wanna know what would have happened? I would have sucked myself away from everyone and everything. I'd go on studying and chasing bad guys, but I'd cut myself off from everyone I cared about because I wouldn't want them hurt. I'd go on living all right, but I'd be like a droid, with no purpose, all mechanical. I wouldn't have let myself feel. Is that life?"  

"It's better than feeling pain in _everything_," Joe snapped. "_God_, Frank. Why couldn't he have killed us both?"

"Sometimes, when I miss you, I wish he had," Frank murmured. "But think of it this way; would you rather have me dead, or alive but never able to see, hear, talk, or write me ever again?"

"Alive."

"I feel the same about you."

Joe digested that, then realized something. "Frank? You miss me?"

"Of course I do."

"But you can still see and hear me."

"I can't talk to you like I used to. I can't hang out or work on cases or help you with your homework. I couldn't do a damn thing the whole time you were breaking down, although I was right beside you through all of it. But you're alive, Joe. And you're gonna go on and be happy and make other people happy, and I'm never going to regret that."

Joe felt tears burning his eyes. "I'm sorry you died, Frank."

"So am I," the older boy murmured, squeezing his brother's hands. "But I'm not sorry you lived."


	41. Chet

He was seated on the stairs leading to the third floor when Joe returned, his head bent in quiet patience. 

"I'm going to talk to you," he said calmly upon seeing his friend's arrival. 

The younger Hardy nodded and lead him up the stairs and down the hall to his single. 

"Ignore the mess," he murmured as he opened the door and held it so Chet could pass. 

"It's not important," the older boy murmured, shoving a pile of clothes toward the head of the bed, his fingers lingering on the black coat. "Frank's?" he asked. Joe nodded. 

"Did you talk to Callie?"

"Yes."

"And Phil?"

"Yes."

"And my parents?"

"Yes."

Joe sighed and sat down. "Do you want to see my arm too?"

"No."

"Are you mad?"

"No."

"Are you going to lecture me?"

"No."

"Is this conversation ridiculous?"

"Yes and no."

The two smiled slightly, then Chet sobered, drew a deep breath, and put his hand over Joe's. 

"There's no use talking around why I'm here Joe. So I'm just going to give you my spiel and you can do what you want with it."

Joe nodded and lowered his eyes.

"Everyone tells you they know how you feel, Joe, I know that, so I'm going to spare you from my version of it. But I really _do_, all right? I lost a sister, the same way you lost a brother. And just as you loved Iola, I loved Frank. Maybe not the same _kind _of love, but love is love, right? It's still a loss. A painful, horrible loss. But I'm telling you, Joe, _neither one of their deaths was your fault._"

Joe shut his eyes. "I want to believe that," he whispered. "_God _I want to believe that. But I don't know _how _Chet."

"Did you plant the car bomb that killed my sister?"

"No."

"Did you know it was there?"

"No."

"Would you have let her near that car if you had any idea?"

"No."

"So that settles her. Now, did you stab your brother?"

"No."

"Did you let him get dragged off?"

"No."

"Would you have taken that case if you knew how it would end?"

Joe's eyes filled. "No."

"So that settles him." He squeezed his friend's hand. "Talk to me, Joe. There's nothing you could tell me that I won't understand."

The younger Hardy covered his eyes. 

"I just want to _scream_," he moaned. "It's so _unfair_. Why them? They were so young. They were so good and kind and loving. They were so _important_ to me. Why didn't I stop it? Why didn't I save them?" Joe's voice caught. "Why am I so _guilty_…"

Chet seized his friend's shoulders and turned him to face him. 

"It wasn't your fault."

"But…"

"It wasn't your fault."

"It's so unfair…"

"It is unfair. It's unfair and it hurts and you and I will dwell on it for the rest of our lives. But good comes with the bad, Joe. I learned that. I grew closer to my parents and they came to understand me better, and I learned how good my friends are." He released Joe's shoulders and put an arm around him. "We want to be there for you, Joe," he murmured. "_I _want to be there for you. Because I know everything. I lived through it. That's just it—I _lived_, despite the pain and anger. And you will too. Because I'm not letting you go this time."

Joe leaned against his friend's shoulder, and the two sat in silence, watching the sun go down and letting a few stray tears fall out of respect for the two departed siblings: both their own and the other's, feeling stronger than ever the love that still existed; not only between the dead and them, but between the two who had been left behind. 


	42. Friends

"Don't worry," Frank murmured as the two crossed the mall's parking lot toward Mr. Pizza. "They all want to see you."

"It's just been so long…"

"Don't talk to me," he snapped. "Just relax, all right? I'll stay close, at least for awhile. Just let yourself have some fun, okay? Laugh a little. They won't ask you how you did it like Callie did."

As they reached the door, Joe felt himself slowing.

"I don't know, Frank…"

"You can do this. You _will _do this." Frank stepped through the door and beckoned his brother. 

The younger Hardy drew a deep breath and stepped through the door, instantly assaulted by the smells of cheese and tomatoes, spice and steak. So many good memories, warm, intimate memories, were attached to this place—times after school, after a meet, on dates—him and his brother, him and his friends, him and Vanessa—

_Van._

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and then he scanned the restaurant awkwardly, finally spotting the once-familiar group in their normal corner. Phil, Tony, Biff, Callie, Vanessa and Chet were splitting pizzas and talking, ignorant to the boy approaching them. 

Chet raised a slice to his mouth and stopped dead, his eyes locked on the hesitant Hardy. 

"Joe!" he cried, leaping up and rushing toward his friend, wrapping him into a bear hug. "I can't believe…I'm so glad you're here!"

"Hey buddy," he murmured, returning the embrace. 

"My turn!" Callie cried, leaping to her feet. 

"Me next!" Phil announced. 

Joe looked to Frank, who settled into an empty seat and cast his brother a knowing smile as each of his friends took turns hugging and complementing him. With one exception. 

"Hi Joe," Vanessa Bender murmured, smiling at him warmly. Joe stared at her, the moment of elation suddenly wavering. 

"Van," he murmured, recalling her stepping onto the porch, dressed and beautiful with a new boy at her side. 

_You can do this._

The others were watching the two awkwardly, relieved when Joe finally smiled. 

"How are you?"

Relief painted her face. "Okay. Good, actually."

"Enjoying college?"

"Yes."

"That's good."

"Sit down," Chet said, gesturing to the pizzas. "Eat something. There's plenty."

"Tell us about school," Phil urged, settling back into his chair. 

"Not much to tell," he murmured. "I think I might transfer, actually."

"To where?" Tony asked, pulling a slice loose and handing it to Joe. 

"I don't know," the younger Hardy said slowly. "Maybe U of Michigan…if you feel you can put up with me."

Now everyone's faces collapsed into relief. 

"My roommate's leaving next semester," Chet said eagerly. "Maybe you can room with me." 

"That'd be great."

"Only one qualification."

"Oh?"

"No electric guitar playing at three am. Or, if you have to play, learn more than _one line _of a song."

The others laughed. Joe smiled, relaxed, and recalled his brother's advise, quickly losing himself in the unforgotten rhythm of his friend's conversation, joining in when he could. It was not until dessert was being passed around that he thought to look to the chair and found his elder brother gone. 


	43. The Murder

_Finally released limbs slowly twitching stretching moving struggling to sit up had to reach Frank, **had to **before it was too late not oh it was too late Frank's screams echoed off the walls, a short, clipped sound, but one Joe had never heard for it was not merely a cry of shock or surprise but one of terror and despair (animal at its end) ripping up from his brother's throat Joe's voice finally returning in a weak scream of his own (Frank! Frank!) fighting and fighting and unable to drag himself to the hallway unable to get free (help us God help us) fighting to his knees crawling along the floor had crawled (get to Frank get to your brother) the corridors dark, deserted, his brother's scream cut off long before, struggling with his cell phone (Dad! Dad help us he's hurt Frank by the harbor there's a van hurry!) finally seeing the outstretched hand his brother's name never making it to his lips—_

_"No," he'd whispered. _

_The elder Hardy was soaked in blood—it had soiled his white tee shirt and pooled down along his ribs to the floor. Joe had never seen anyone bleed so much. His brother was coughing, choking, hemorrhaging blood, dragging it up from his lacerated torso and stomach, writing in agony from wounds that just wouldn't grant him a quick death, tears he couldn't control cascading over his bloodied face, his handsome face, his **young** face._

_"Frank," Joe whimpered, crawling to his older brother, "Frank, hold on, Dad's coming hang on…" he'd collapsed beside him, the emotion shaking him, working at the straps that held his brother's wrists and ankles together._

_"Run…" Frank whimpered, his body able to say the words through his mouth filled with crimson, knowing it was useless because Joe would never leave him._

_"Hang on, Frank, please just hang on," Joe murmured, brushing blood and tears from his brother's cheeks, smoothing dark hair back from the sweat-soaked forehead. "You're gonna be okay. You **have **to be okay. I need—" he'd faltered and clutched the sides of his brother's head, steadying him as he spat up more blood. "I need you, Frank, so much…" _

Oh God it's true don't take him please don't you know I'll die too I'll go out of my mind I need him he's my partner and my best friend and my brother.

_"Shhhh, shhhh," he murmured, tears stinging his eyes as he helped Frank turn to his side to cough blood on the floor. "I'm not leaving you, brother. I'm staying right here." _

_"He'll…" more blood, "come…" another cough, darker liquid, "back…"_

_"I don't care," the younger Hardy whispered._

_Joe never considered his own safety. He stayed by his brother, doing his best to keep him calm, although he could do nothing for the pain. But as the moments passed Joe saw Frank growing weaker and weaker until he lay with blood running from his throat over his cheeks and hips, form the corner of his mouth, and felt intense panic seize him as his he accepted the fact that Frank was, indeed, dying. _

_Dying.___

_The elder Hardy's lips formed his brother's name, but he could no longer produce sound through the blood. Joe bent and lifted Frank's shoulders and torso and held him against his chest, tenderly wiping blood and tears off his brother's cheeks, unable to stifle his own sobs. _

_"Don't leave me," he whispered, not caring how pathetic and cliché those three little words were. They remained a desperate, profound prayer. _

_Frank reached a trembling hand up and brushed a stray tear Joe hadn't realized had escaped from his younger brother's face. He tried to draw a breath hand his chest hitched despite Joe's firm hold, and fresh blood made its way over his face._

_"I…" Frank managed, staring into his brother's wide crying eyes, feeling Joe's terror, far greater than his own as Frank left him behind, "love…" (so much power in that word so much strength, a bond that would carry with them despite the painful pull of death that was quickly claiming the elder) "you."_

_Frank's hand fell. _

_The officer's report read that they found the boys by following the sounds of Joe's screaming, which is how they found him: howling into his older brother's blood soaked shirt as Frank's eyes stared glazed and gone up at the ceiling. _


	44. Released

Joe woke up choking on screams, fighting them back into his chest, remembering the paramedics and police and his father forcing Frank from his arms, remembering his shirt and pants brown and bloodied, remembering the fight as they dragged him through the room, his screaming of "That's my brother! Let me go, I have to stay, I have to help him! Somebody help him! Somebody _do something_!" and then he was on his back and they were tying him down and he was dizzy and weak and numb and disbelieving, and his father was beside him with tears on his eyes murmuring "It'll be all right, son, we'll get through this…somehow…" but still he hadn't believed, hadn't believed as they brought him in for observation and gave him a shot and whispered 'shock' to his parents behind his back, hadn't believed when his mother and aunt entered weeping, hadn't believed until he'd stormed into the morgue and demanded to see his body, and then he remembered his brother's last words and the limpness of his brother's hand and blankness of his eyes and blacked out on the concrete floor. 

"Joe."

He sat straight up as his brother perched on his bed, his straight and firm rather than its usual relaxed and soft. 

"Frank," he sobbed, "I can't…"

"Get up."

Joe looked up sharply. "What?"

"Get up. Put my coat on."

"What? Why? Where are we going? It's three a.m.!"

"_Get up_."

"But…"

"Trust me."

"I did that before, and look how things turned out!"

Frank rose, took his brother's hand, and pulled him to his feet. 

"Put your coat on."

"Frank—"

"_Now_."

"But—"

"No talking. No thinking. Trust me. Follow me."

Joe—trembling—slowly obeyed, dressing himself as he had the night they'd gone to the cafeteria, noting that his brother's coat was just a little tighter; his body, a little less cold. 

Frank stepped through the door and waited while his brother locked it, then walked swiftly ahead, so quickly and lightly Joe could barely keep up. For the first time he realized that his brother's feet and legs were fading: his step was lighter than before, as his own were growing heavier. 

_He's leaving soon_. 

The thought hit him so hard he almost stopped, but Frank, as if sensing, turned around and made a sharp gesture that urged him on. 

_Trust me. _

And so Joe stumbled on through the dark, away from campus—past the river and the tree they'd sat beneath—out onto the road—one of their favorite to run on—through part of the woods—they'd explored them in their teens—down a hill—they'd sledded with friends—to the austere black gates, spiked and stabbing upward and the faint light of the moon hovering over the graveyard. 

"Frank—"

But his brother had stepped nimbly through the bars and was already moving amongst the stones. Joe stood, tremors racing through his body.

He'd never been to his brother's grave. 

_Joe? Honey, are you—_

_I need to go Mom._

_There's still the cemetery—_

_I'm not going to the cemetery._

_Joseph, don't be disrespectful!_

_To who?___

_Your brother!_

_MY BROTHER IS DEAD!_

Joe leaned against the cold steel, fighting tears. 

_Running from the church, tears pouring, flooding, cascading over my face, choking as I ran suit and all tripping scraping knees not caring leaving the hearse behind ignoring their cries—Vanessa Callie Mom Dad Gertrude Chet Phil—disappearing home, grabbing the vodka and the keys drinking crying driving crying drinking driving drinking drinking drinking the world spinning—_

_Wanna__ race?_

_—deciding to rid myself of the van, of this symbol of our bond._

"Joe."

The younger Hardy raised his haunted eyes to his older brother's ghost.

"Come with me."

Trembling, Joe pushed on the gate, surprised when it gave and he stepped through the threshold. 

_If you'd hit a foot more to the left you'd be dead, Joe. _

Frank slammed the gate shut and half-shoved his brother forward. 

_I want to help you, baby…_

_There is no help for me, Van. _

The elder Hardy moved swiftly over the earth, obviously familiar with the layout of the gravestones; Joe trembled harder and harder with each step. 

_Ever smoked up?_

A wind swayed the branches, black against the sky, and suddenly Joe was beyond cold despite his brother's jacket. 

_What did you expect, that he'd protect you forever?_

_I thought we were invincible. _

A car's lights winked as it passed the trees in the distance—

_Messages on the answering machine_

—and Joe caught sight of the Morton mausoleum in the corner—

_Honey, you know it wasn't your fault. Neither one was your fault…_

—before he caught sight of his brother, halted several rows away, facing him. Waiting. 

_Joe you're failing school are you okay what's wrong what's on your arms he wouldn't want this for you you never smile anymore why won't you let me help you I want you to come to school with us Joseph you need to come home they're putting you on academic probation we left his room untouched it's probably best if you stay out I'm quitting everything Ezra want nothing to do with solving mysteries ever again Joe they caught the bastard he's in jail for life promise honey why won't you eat you're losing too much weight he wouldn't want this for you—_

Entering Frank's room

_He'd want you to go on—_

The knife on the desk

_He'd want you to be strong_—

Toppling drawers and chairs and mirrors

_He loved you so much_—

Shower blocked out the noise

_He wouldn't want you to give up—_

Blade to flesh, the rush of red

_Please don't leave me—_

Collapsing

_I…_

The knock

_Love…_

Whiteness

_You.___

Joe sank to his knees in front of the tombstone he'd finally reached, holding his hands over his mouth to hold in the screams clawing at his throat, the swirl of emotions violently clawing their way to his vocal cords. 

"You can't keep holding it in!" Frank shouted. "Think of me! Think of the blood, think of the pain, think of your grief, and _let it out_!"

Joe's hands were torn from his lips and the scream came out, echoing off the gravestones so that the cemetery was crying with him, and then it was over and he was slumped on the ground beside the stone, sobbing and weakening, but realizing that the cold and exhaustion were gone and in their places were hunger and lightness.

Frank knelt down his beside his younger brother and brushed hair off his head. 

"You're all right now," he murmured.

He vanished. 

Joe felt no panic. He rose slowly, dusted himself off, wiped his eyes, touched the flowers at the base of his brother's grave, and quietly left the cemetery. 


	45. Reuniting

"Aren't we invading his privacy?"

"He won't return our calls," Fenton answered his frowning wife, pounding on his son's door. "What are we _supposed _to do?"

Laura sighed and pulled her sweater closer. She didn't know anymore. She hadn't known for a long, long time. 

The door opened moments later, and Joe stepped out. Laura's eyes widened, and a smile touched her mouth: her son had filled out slightly, his body sturdier; his eyes, clearer. The circles were gone from beneath his eyes, and he seemed more alert. 

"Honey…" her heart stopped as she spotted the scissors in Joe's hand and the tee shirt he wore, revealing the scars.

"Joseph! What are you—" Fenton began.

"It's okay," he said quickly, gesturing to the floor, where strands of blonde lay strewn about. "I'm cutting my hair."

Laura felt herself blush. "Oh," she murmured. 

"I could barely see."

"You _couldn't _see."

Joe nodded and surprised his parents with an embrace. 

"Come in," he murmured, stepping back to hold the door open. 

The Hardys entered, looking around at the now clean dorm room, the floor freshly swept, the bed made with clean sheets, the windows open to let in the warmer air, a basket of laundry fresh from the dryer resting beside opened drawers filled with folded clothes. 

"I'm sorry I haven't called."

"We've been worried."

"I know."

"Your friends said they stopped by."

"They have."

"Are you…doing all right?"

The younger Hardy nodded and bent to gather his strands of blonde hair from the floor. 

"Better," he murmured. "A lot better."

There was an awkward pause as Laura settled onto the bed and Fenton walked to the windows. 

"I think I'm going to transfer to Michigan U," Joe murmured a moment later. "To be with my friends."

"We can talk about it."

Another pause. 

"Dad…you working again?"

Fenton winced. "A little," he murmured. 

Joe set the scissors down. "I've been thinking of switching my major."

His parents stared.

"To Criminal Law."

Laura's eyes filled. "Joe…"

"He wouldn't want me to stop, you know. Mysteries are a part of me. They were of him too."

"Honey…"

"I went to his grave. Did you know I've never been there?"

"Son…" Fenton started.

"And you know what I realized?" he looked at them. "It wasn't my fault. It was all me. All in my head. And I _was _selfish, because…because I dragged everyone down along with me rather than just getting some help. And I hurt you worse than myself…" his voice caught, and his eyes filled. Laura pressed her hand to her mouth as her son turned his eyes, no longer haunted, to her own. 

"Oh Mom…Dad…I'm…I'm _sorry_…"

They both just held out their arms and let their son fall into them, weep against his mother's shoulder as his father stroked his hair. It was the first time the small family had come together without its fourth member. But as they entwined they were no longer three struggling individuals: they were links in a chain. Cold when viewed as separate circles, but warming as they held on, ever bound. 


	46. Vanessa

"Honey, can you get the door?" her mother called from upstairs. 

"Got it!" she called back, pushing her hair out of her eyes as she opened the back door. Her breath caught in her throat, it couldn't be—

"Hey Van," he murmured. "We need to talk."


	47. Departure

"Congratulations."

Joe whirled around: his brother had taken him by surprise. He had not seen Frank in months, throughout the spring as he returned to classes and struggled back into his normal routine, throwing himself into work, therapy, and applications. When his report card—covered in Cs—had finally arrived, the acceptance to U of Michigan had been hot on its heels; in addition to his roommate request form. 

"They took me," the younger Hardy smiled. "They understood the psychological issues and they said I deserved a new chance."

"I know."

"I gained weight," Joe held out his arms proudly. "See?"

Frank just nodded, keeping his distance on the other side of the room.

"And Vanessa and I…we're working things out. We've been seeing each other again, but we're going slow. Really slow."

Another nod.  

"Frank?"

"I'm really proud of you, Joe."

"Are you all right?"

His brother nodded slowly. "Just…came to make it official."

"Make it…" Joe faltered, his face paling.

"Joe, you knew this was coming…"

"No! You can't leave! I'll get sick again Frank I'll—"

"Stop. Look at yourself. You're happy, you're healthy. You're the brother I left behind."

"Because of you! Because you're here and you look out for me and—"

Frank was across the room and touching his brother's hands in a second. 

"Don't talk," he murmured. "Trust. The way you did when I told you it would be okay. The way I did when you followed me to the cemetery. The way you always used to. I'd never abandon you if I thought you needed me, Joe. I mean, _really _needed me. But it's over now, brother. You're gonna go on and be happy and make others happy and help people, the way we used to. You'll still think about and remember me, the same way I'll always think about and remember you, and when you're time comes I'll be waiting. All right?"

Joe felt a tear break loose from the water filling his eyes and make its way down his cheek.

"Oh Frank…" he whispered, falling forward and wrapping his arms around his ghost brother who felt slightly less solid, slightly more cold. 

_The way I used to be. _

"I know little brother," Frank whispered, his own voice strained, "I'll miss you too. But you'll have eternity to put up with me. Promise."

"What do I do?" he sobbed. "What do I do when it hurts too much to think straight?"

"You think of me and imagine me beside you and relax and feel for me. I'll be there, Joe, especially in those moments. You may not be able to see or hear me, but you can _sense _me. Remember how we used to be able to do that? Sense when the other needed us, when the other was in danger? We'll be able to do that still. Because we're bonded, little brother, so tightly that even death couldn't break us."

Joe shut his eyes, his bottom lip trembling as the tears slipped down. Frank reached out and brushed them away. 

"I'll be with you," the elder Hardy murmured. "Always."

"I love you Frank," Joe whispered, opening his eyes to meet his brother's fading brown ones. Frank smiled. 

"That's something I _did _always know." 

***

"I brought you flowers this time, bro," Joe murmured, kneeling beside his brother's grave. 

Joe had read of the Reaper's execution four months later. He did not attend. Instead, he lit the article on fire and scattered the ash over the cemetery, which he visited loyally every month on the date Frank had lead him to his grave. Each time he brought flowers, or a letter, or some photographs, something to make his older brother's stone unique. To let him know he was not forgotten. 

The transfer had been simple and successful: Joe's first report card was a line of A's with positive comments from each professor. 

_"See?"_ Chet had laughed when he'd told him. _"I knew rooming with me would be good luck." _

_"He's proud of you,"_ Callie had murmured, giving him a quick hug. He'd found himself looking out for her since he'd transferred; encouraging her to date, but screening each prospect. She'd laughed at his protectiveness, pointing out that he was a threat again: he'd gained not only weight, but muscle. Frank's coat no longer fit across the shoulders, and he'd covered it in plastic and left it in his closet at home, in the room he no longer feared, in the bathroom he no longer cut himself in. 

_"The doctor says he can do a skin graft to cover the skin on your wrist,"_ his father had told him, looking at his eldest son's now faded name without flinching. Joe merely nodded his agreement and cleared his schedule during the first week of summer. 

_"I'll go with you, if you want," his girlfriend murmured, squeezing his hand._

_"Thanks, Van," he answered, kissing her cheek. _

"I go in for surgery tomorrow," he said softly to the tombstone. "I know you'd want me to, but I want you to know that I'm not trying to erase your name. I just…need to hide the scars, you know? But I'm all right now. Really all right now." 

He silently arranged the flowers about the base, beside a photo of him and Vanessa and the report he'd written on his brother when he applied to schools. He felt he should cry, but his eyes were dry and his chest was light. Besides, his brother wouldn't want him to. 

"Everyone thinks about you," he murmured. "But they don't grieve anymore. They remember the good times. There were lots of those, weren't there?" 

Joe ran his fingertips over the name. 

"And there'll be more," he whispered, leaning to rest his forehead against the indented letters. "Because I'm going to die one day too," he drew back, looked to the sky, and smiled, unafraid.

"And then I'll always be with you."  


End file.
